To say I wasn't prepared for exactly what my surgery would be is an understatement of epic proportions.
I expected stitches that would inevitably give be a long scar to spend the rest of my life explaining. I didn't thin I would come out looking like Frankenstein's Monster if he was also a stroke victim.
Stitches and staples everywhere. A recovery process I just was not prepared for.
I was never a particularly good looking dude. Now it's a safe bet I never will be.
So this is me wallowing in self pity. Me putting friends in a position I desperately tried to avoid. Me, again, unable to do the simplest things for myself.
I'm tired. Tired of struggling. Tired of fighting with myself.
What do you do with a body that seems intent on killing you? Or at least destroying your spirit.
For the moment, it's succeeded. For the moment I get to feel hopeless, destitute and completely pathetic. I think I've earned that.
I'm not saying this as a platitude or anything, but you should know that my dad had a similar operation on his face a couple of years ago and did look a little shocking straight afterwards. He is diabetic and has poor-healing skin. But if you look at his face now, only those who know he has had surgery can see the very faintest of scars in a certain light. Day to day, you wouldn't have a clue. I don't think you're pathetic for being fed up and frustrated by what's come your way the last couple of years. I think it's normal. But I also think you have the strength of will to ride it out.
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