Popping Pills and Wavering Confidence

I'm on medication. It's for a skin disease kind of thing. Doesn't seem to be helping much, I don't quite trust my doctor anymore. I find out on Monday what the lab has to say about the sample the doctor sent away. I got proactive (with the help of my second mum), but not the Vanessa Williams infomercial acne cream. I bought something topical and stuff for what I thought the problem was. It's early days but I think it's helping. The rash is in most places. Predominantly on my face and neck, but semi-large scabby things have formed on my arms and legs too. It makes me insecure. On my cheeks I struggle to feel normal skin, my forehead's almost the same. I wear collared shirts and hooded jumpers to conceal my neck as best as possible, and shorts are pretty much out of the question. It makes me angry.

I'm not sure how it started and I hate that it's just come from nowhere. I've had to work the last three days in a row and I see the way people look at me when I serve them and don't like it much. But that's when I'm in a negative mood about it. Now I'm learning to be positive about the situation. Putting it into perspective, it's not such a big deal. So what if I get looks, what does it really matter? I'm not gonna let something small like this stop me from living and doing the things I normally do. I think this is going to be good for me. Whilst it's going away slowly, I think I'll have it for a little while yet, and it might teach me a lesson about appearance and confidence. For me the two may have been a little too closely related. So I'll end this now on a high note before my volatile mood makes me slightly depressed about it again... Good can come from this. As long as I'm smiling it doesn't matter what I look like.

Until you see me next, you've been warned so don't recoil upon the visage of my face and stuff. :P

Dale.

"Only you can't drink photos."

The last thing I wrote began with a description of a resilient ant. It was happening before me and it helped me get started. It loosed my mind and the words flowed out onto the page. The immediate external environment inspired me. It never used to be so. I used to be able to call to mind an issue that was in the news, or (more frequently) something that had happened to me or affected me in some way. More of a mental thing. I’ve written this before, just in other words. I need to focus because my writing mind seems thick with a dense, foggy-like fog. I need to “re-ignite the passion” (said with South American accent). I need to stop thinking in clichés!

I wrote in my little black book while I was away at Rye. And no, my little black book doesn’t contain any dirty secrets, it just so happens that my notebook is smallish and the complete opposite of white. So there’s no point in trying to steal it for purposes like blackmail or popularity-inducing gossip. Because I know that’s what you were thinking. Besides, I keep it in a wooden box with a padlock on it, so you’d need bolt-cutters to get into that box. And procuring those would require effort and planning and we both know it’s not worth it. Unless I’m just pretending to keep my little black book containing no secrets in the aforementioned wooden box with padlock.

Game, set, and match. :)

Dale.