I hate feeling better. That’s right; I hate it.

When you’re itchy and scruffy and snuffling and cold, or nauseous and cranky and achy and sick, feeling better is a miracle from the gods. It often comes on so slowly that it’s like spring winds but made of treacle and molasses, too quietly to bother watching but wonderful at every landmark of completion.

But when I have a crisis or breakdown, I hate feeling better.

It’s like one last slap in the face from the problem, sapping your last little shreds of belief that maybe, maybe you have some control over your emotions or feelings, but no, it walks up to you with balloons and puppies to make you giggle and feel cozy before you realize it’s stolen your wallet and run off laughing with $500 dollars and your IDs. You might still have the puppy – you’re probably still very glad about the puppy – but the disease won the last little battle, and your only shred of dignity is gone.

Dignity, it laughs in your face. What a fallacy. You’re insane.

Your dignity was the possibility that what you had felt bad about was legitimate, that all the overwhelmingly horrible feelings, thoughts, panic and distress that you just went through for a half hour had some external cause, some valid and logical reason, some scrap of normality that you could hold up and say, see, it’s not my fault, I am my own person with my own will and things went wrong so I reacted as anyone would.

Instead you are left with the shame of knowing that your brain deceived you, that you are still a divided person, with disease still at the command of your starship, with the stupid fancy hat. It told you something was wrong and your brain went la-di-dah along with the situation and freaked out. Now the same brain is la-di-dah happy to smile and sing and send charming endorphins throughout your body as you wipe away the tears.

Rude, brain. Rude.

You are the least helpful part of my body. You have been duped. And in being duped, you duped me along with you, helpless as I am.

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