Rossignol Eliot’s Will and Testament
I’ve been ill for three years, a gradual decline (albeit with a few more marked thresholds) until I was more ill than most people ever find themselves, while still being unlucky enough to remain alive. It’s hard to say much to summarize all of this. It is literally hard. I cannot muster the energy to type very much. I usually never type more than a paragraph on any given day. I think in tv static, bite-sized mantras and images threading together to offer me direction out of brain fog on a day to day level. So it would be hard to say much more other than I suffered far too much, during that time, on many axes. I suffered immensely physically—pain, more shades of discomfort than have been named, etc. I suffered emotionally from losing my youth and my life. I suffered cognitively as my pain and inflammatory disease rent my mind apart. Without palliative care or getting a break from the suffering, I was thrown into unreality. I to this day am not sure whether I died on tha
