“’Could he not go to hospital?’ asks Jean-Baptiste. The doctor flares his nostrils. ‘Hospitals are very dangerous places. Particularly to one already weakened by illness.’”

In a way it took me nearly two years to draw this.

My dad once said that one should write about what one knows. Let’s assume that when he said write he actually meant draw. Draw what you know.

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“Doctoring her seemed to her as absurd as putting together the pieces of a broken vase. Her heart was broken. Why would they try to cure her with pills and powders?”

Day 2 on the new pill.

Probably the biggest scare – inability to do my so called art – made itself comfortable in my head. Nearly every time that my pen stops just few inches from the paper in some sort of indecisiveness – I am almost sure that it already happened. Shit. Then I draw more – I draw until I can keep my eyes open and hold the pen. Probably I am trying to prove something to someone. Probably it is also easier to worry obsess about that than to think about all of the other things. (There is a lot of the other things.)

And so it goes…

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“Because there is no glory in illness. There is no meaning to it. There is no honor in dying of.”

It’s been nearly two years since my last stay in the hospital. It all started with a cough – somehow mediocre, nevertheless tiring and exhausting. In a manner of couple days everything escalated and I started dying.

But I cough every winter – all the way through to the spring (spring in which existence I usually start to doubt about somewhere mid February). I caught myself recently that after every cough my body produces, I very quickly go through a checklist and try to determine whether it’s the old, well-known to me winter sound of my lungs, or maybe, once again, something is breaking in me.

This checklist is something new to me – I haven’t done it (or – haven’t done it very often) last year. In a very dark and specific way – I guess it’s a good sign.

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“…You will soon be dead. Life will sometimes seem long and tough and, god, it’s tiring. And you will sometimes be happy and sometimes sad. And then you’ll be old. And then you’ll be dead.”

I sit at my desk – my 33 year old self, with more issues than Vanity Fair; with semi-visible scars that are only partially covered by unfinished tattoos; with brown rings around my eyes; I sit uncomfortably in my own body, body that is becoming lighter with every meal I don’t have, with every night I don’t sleep through – so I sit at my desk and stare at my fingers with bitten nails and knuckles dirty from paint and bruised by this hard to describe sadness, that sadness that is sitting just next to me, that sadness that puts its heavy hands on my shoulders and whispers into my ear things that would break my mother’s heart.

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I guess, at least initially, I was planning to tell you how I’ve got to this point – point where I know I need help; point that the thought about the next day (and the next day and the next) makes me cry; point where nights are just nightmares or silent panic that makes it hard to breathe – so I stay up and draw and when I can’t draw anymore – because I am too tired – I start to panic that either I have never had it in me or that the happy pills took it away from me (there can’t be any sleep after that)…

I could also tell you that these days I can’t go to bed without the stuffed pancreas that my sister made for me few years back (my real pancreas doesn’t really do me much good – I am diabetic). It’s soft and fluffy (pancreas, not my sister) and I hold on to it through the dark hours – because this way I don’t feel so damn alone…

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I could also tell you how I practice in my head things I will need to say to a doctor, no matter how much it will make me feel stupid and pathetic…

I could and I was planning to but I guess I am too tired. Maybe that’s quite a good example of a lot of things in my life. Maybe that actually says it all.