It's raining today, and I didn't know it from my hands. They're only a little sore, and I feel more like me again. My knuckles still feel hot and strange under the skin (I'm sure you'll know what I mean) but I'm feeling more heat and less actual pain. I'll take it. To hell with control. I need to get back to taking each moment as it comes. I want to rejoin my life and that, for me, means adjusting how I think. Better is good. All better would be nice, but so would winning the lottery. Piano still hurts, and I'll talk to the rheumy about it, but I've drunk my full share of self-pity and it's not doing me any good whatever.
I've registered for a pain self-management course out of the University of Victoria, and that starts in a few weeks. I'm beaten up, but I'm NOT beaten.
I realized the other day that while I'm not actively suicidal, I'd welcome the end of my life. That's not how I intend to live. I have always thought that all events in my life have a purpose, and that it's my solemn duty to find it. Time to start looking, methinks.