For the last 4 weeks, I’ve had a net another yet another Behcets’s lesion in my mouth. This one stayed the longest, and is still present though less painfully combustible. As it began to recede I had the utterly stupid, as history should note, idea that I would be able to spend a few weeks without some part of my mouth on fire. Right. Yes, to believe in this is to believe in white bunnies bringing me candy every day.
Just as the one began to slip away, another sprouted its painful self of lower left side of my tongue. This is a strategic location because it causes pain no matter what my mouth does.
This should not be such a surprise as I”ve lived with this for nearly 40 fucking years. If it’s not one lesion in my mouth it’s a lesion elsewhere causing the same or worse pain.
This disease is designed, at least for me, to cause the maximal pain. Not simply physical pain, but the pain of one onslaught upon the next. It waits until I’m almost ready to accept a leison free few days when it detonates a new one. This is designed for maximal demoralization.
Lesions and their attendant pain, sometimes agony, are designed to inflict maximal psychological torture. Just when you think you’ve escaped, the fucker tracks you down before you reach freedom at the gate and pulls you back in. All the while laughing manically in my ear. My ear, so no one else hears the agonizing protest gargling up my throat.
Yes, the life of the chronically ill, the chronically painful existence, is quite frankly, the last laugh of Beelzebub. His chared tongue and split lips laughing up brimstone, brimstone he laves over our writing bodies.
It makes me murderous.