This thing is mine. This little pouch, carrying something called an auto-injector, and the box of medication next to it; they’re all mine. But I’m not happy to own them yet.
Yesterday I saw this rerun of Grey’s Anatomy where a man felt so disconnected to his foot that he **graphic image coming:** sawed it off with a chainsaw. The way he saw it, he was linked to something and others said that it was his, that there was no other explanation for why it was attached to him. But he just did not understand it, or want it, or tolerate it, so he rejected it.
I’m not psychotic so I won’t be going anywhere with a chainsaw, but to some extent I understand it. I’m connected to this pouch and these needles and I just don’t get it. They don’t feel like me.
But all of this was given to me. And I will spend some time resisting, but I will not chop anything off and I will learn to be this pouch’s owner.
startablogandanewlife 