Battle.

I was born with APS. ( not going to explain....you can easily find out all about it these days).
So, repeatedly, since my teens, I have had to surrender to a greater force than myself which is made by me, born of me, and has foiled my plans, tripped me up, held me back, cut me open to paddle around in my chest and then thrown me back up into the light.....reset and stitched up good enough for all those who love me and travel with me and worry for me to expect another miraculous, admirable exhibit of strength and endurance that they don't know they would have if they were in my worn out, cheap shoes.
I think i fought it hard through my twenties. Proud of what I achieved in a muscular, relentless state of denial. It's stunning what can be done in that reality. But it couldn't last.....
Thirties were harder. Lonelier. Poorer and more painful, but having been told I wouldn't get there, I felt grateful, thankful, blessed and tried to accept, accept, accept this wolf prowling around in my bloodstream, here for the long haul and so, so, ever so fucking slowly gaining on me.
Forty was a body blow that hit harder and earlier than I had thought it would.
Hot, stinking, lupine breath right in my ear and huge clawed feet bearing down on my shoulders. Getting stronger and more confident, gnawing my muscles and leaving it's tooth marks all over me,  scarring me up, outside and in.

I am lucky.

It will die with me, having made motherhood a terrifying impossibility, the nasty bastard won't be passed on. Thank goodness, eh?

I hate it. I have days where I can't see anything but it. I start and finish every day with the drugs that slow it down.......but what are they doing to me?..... who's side are they on, really?
I hate it.
I'm a good girl....bit fat, maybe. Bit arrogant sometimes, too proud.
Not mean, not violent, not dishonest or uncaring.
Jesus, I hate it.

There is something I can do that will make it all much, much better, give me and the people I love, the man I adore longer......
 and what the fuck am I complaining about with my two working legs and strong arms and a functioning brain and, though I say so myself, rather fabulous skin?

There is something I can do.

Stop bleating. I will not be a lamb to this wolf's slaughter.
Stop dreaming. We know, wolfie and me, that it's high time to take up real arms.
Stop waiting. There's no woodcutter's axe coming to free me from it's big teeth.....my, how sharp they are.

Stop smoking.