Re-reading the previous three entries, I sound like an idiot. Three days. That's how long the treatment lasted. A treatment I can only have every eight weeks, and it lasted three days. I'm back to the pain and to spending, quite literally, half of my day in the bathroom. When I am able to make it that far. I had promised myself I wouldn't feel too much hope so that I wouldn't be to miserable when, not if, those hopes were dashed.
I really should have known better.
Still, it was a bit of an education in self-inspection. I do need to learn to define myself in a better way, and not in terms of this vile, vile illness that over the past fifty years I have come to hate more than I could ever find the words to describe. I really am not my illness. I'm just not sure what I actually am. I'm working on it.
Still, I should have known better.