November 6, 2018
When I first got sick, I read all about acceptance, and things like coming to grips with "my new life." I read about not thinking of the disease as "attacking my joints" as that might make the illness quantifiably worse (negative emotions and all that). I always did so with a curl to my lip and anger blazing in my eyes. I mean, don't these people know I have berserker-blood in my veins? Don't they understand my penchant for sharp, pointy sticks?
While I was writing Errant Gods, I imagined naming it "Monsters" instead (prior to release, a quick search on Amazon taught me how silly that would have been). Around that time, I started calling the disease "my monster," which became "my Personal Monster(tm)" thanks to the editor of Devils.
I'm going through a brief (hopefully) time of bumptious medications and dastardly Personal Monster(tm) hijinx. I've been to the "Monster Doctor" (my rheumatologist) and have readjusted my meds for the thirty-gerbillionth time, this time moving back toward the glory-days of methotrexate. Sif would sneer, but hey, I'll take it.
Anyway, I've decided that calling my disease my Personal Monster(tm) is giving the bastard too much power at present. Therefore, from this moment on, let my disease be known as:
"Petunia the Wimpy."
I like it. It's got a ring, doesn't it?