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I am sick 😷 Felt like arse this morning. I’ve coughed up something vibrant. I seem to be celebrating all of WA’s cold weather months being unwell in some way. It’s frustrating, because apart from catching every damned bug that comes along, I’m generally active and healthy.
Sometimes, in germ-infested desperation, I turn to superstition to help me make sense of being sick. My favourite ridiculous logic is that I get sick when I’ve got something stuck inside me—a secret, a difficult truth, a story.
One time, I had a crick in my neck that lasted until I worked up the nerve to tell the boy I was dating that I was annoyed with him. Another time, I had a flu that suddenly subsided after I forgave myself for a failed relationship.
It’s silly, but hey, when you’re disgusting and grumbly, you take what you can to get you through. And if it helps—by coincidence or through relieving the stress you were carrying—it helps. It’s no substitute for actual science and looking after your body, but who’s to tell you what stories you get to tell yourself when you’re waylaid?
Today, I think my sickness comes from not writing over the weekend. I wished for it, daydreamed about it, pondered storylines and character hurdles and ways to articulate complicated feelings. But it didn’t happen. I could count on one hand the number of hours we spent awake at home.
So there’s a story stuck inside me. And one way or another, it’s going to come out—whether in words or in that colourful stuff I keep washing down the sink 😕