Undiagnosable
I just finished reading a second book of essays by Sloane Crosley. Not her second book of essays (I started with her second one...) but anyway. The last part of the last essay was hilarious/touching in particular.
She was being tested for a strange blood disorder which symptoms included: fatigue, nonspecific stomach pain, weight fluctuation, loss of sex drive, depression, and excessive urination. She wrote, "I had myself an explanation for everything that had ever been wrong with me."
And who hasn't wanted that?
I mean, seriously.
I was recently talking to my friend, Bear, about the usefulness of having a diagnosis to explain everything unsettling about who you are. "I had fallen in love with my flaws once they were easily contained," she goes on, in the essay. Her flaws seem "practically charming" with a reason. She talks about having the diagnosis "like a balloon tied to my wrist with an IV for a string. If anything went wrong, all I had to do was tug at the string and bring my explanation down for others to see. This is who I am and this is why."
She was downright disappointed when the test results came back. Negative.
"Now my problems had been set loose. They could be anywhere at anytime and I was just like everyone else I knew: almost positive that there was something profoundly and undiagnosably wrong with me."
If we are friends (and we probably are) you already know that that is SO me.