At this point, I'm just trying my best to remain sane. I'm glad to be going home soon, but all the factors I've written about before are still making me crazy.
Mom's new thing is complaining about marijuana. I've been around her cigarette smoke my entire life, so I suppose it's only poetic justice that she breathe some smoke. This entire situation has made me more than willing to indulge in a little schadenfreude--hell, I even listen in when Dr. Phil comes on the TV.
I'm probably not making much sense right now. When I started this project to journal the process of receiving CAR T therapy, I had some grand idea that I would weave the entire experience into a meaningful tapestry that generations to come would read in English class. Publishers would be breaking the door down asking for book deals. Maybe Michael Moore would adapt it into a film.
Part of the problem is that my earlier blog posts, before the CAR T series began, were written in a dead silent apartment while my wife was away at work. I had the will, the mind, and the environment to spend all day picking words, looking up sources, getting Creative Commons images and editing sentence-by-sentence. These days my writing is in a more stream-of-consciousness style, and my inner monologue is pretty quiet when I've been sleep-deprived for weeks and this one nurse I really dislike is on my last nerve, even though my appointment was at ten in the morning and it's past midnight now.
It's now been zero days since Mom referenced an unfunny standup bit and was upset that I didn't laugh.
I've always felt like nobody understands me, but I'm starting to suspect that maybe there is nothing to understand. I'm not deep or tortured or especially intelligent, I'm just unpleasant to be around because I'm bad at small talk. If I'm not interested in something, I'm very bad at pretending; if I have nothing to say, then I won't say anything. If anything is "wrong with me," I feel like that's a good candidate: I can't just talk for talking's sake.
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