Becoming Friendly with the Enemy

I am tired of curve-balls. Yet no matter my complaints there is always a copious amount of them ready to be pitched at most inopportune moments. Sometimes, when there is a rare lull in the doctors appointments, all medical prescriptions have been filled and I find myself pondering thoughts of a more philosophical manner; I actually long for normality. Nay, for a truly boorish life that no one in company is envious of. But it’s not to be.
That was decided long before I even entered this world, that my demise would be a downhill spiral which would take years and turn me into something I and those around me could no longer recognize. So far the fate that I have suffered has manipulated me into something unnatural, something so far removed from the woman I had strived to be. For that it is my mortal enemy, and for the fact that with no question nor negotiation, it will claim my life eventually.

But as one of few remaining character traits which I can apply to make myself a mere shadow of my former being is truth; so I will tell such and say that I do not hate the enemy. In fact, there is more of a place in my heart for it than there is hatred for it. It’s a fact, or a finding that has taken me a long time to be comfortable with and only recently have I acquired the courage to voice it on public page, a method which epitomizes honesty. This word, which I even still avoid at any costs to say, this thing that is killing me slowly, is my beloved friend and companion. For it is my only cohort, caught in my body as much as I am caught in its presence. The strange twist of fate is that I actually pity this thing, for it has been subjected to the same treatment that I have and as I have expressed with much fervor, no body and no thing deserves that.