I haven’t, in all the time that has elapsed since I had my own liver replaced with that of a teenager two years younger than myself, made any attempt to rationalize, through physical or social means and media, the journey endured in having to accept and adopt a life entirely born anew. This, I must strongly contest, is not an overstatement. Moving from 19 years based upon the notion of progressive continuity, an emotional bliss that, whilst battled with in the context of its formation, I only now appreciate to the point that the majority of my tears are born from bitterness: human ignorance is a treasure I will only ever be able to obtain using one of the genie’s three wishes.
The years B.N.L (before new liver) had contained with them temporal facts, immovable and true, yet also formulated all the foundations of hope and expectation: I have lost my only, albeit perhaps only flimsy in actuality, opportunity to trace that elusive ‘future’. What now could possibly provide me with the same comfort given the majority whom have retained their map to regarding the relationship between mental, spatial and all the ‘other’? Nothing. That is what, expect perhaps a map born from entirely new foundations and which, I now know a priori, for myself seem only perceivable after a now significantly regarded five years have passed! It was perhaps three years in the making that I even allowed myself any personal pity, brushing any sentiment other than gratitude off my shoulder lest I appear ungrateful for the life, through all intents and purposes, I should not naturally possess. Ha, my very life has been made manifest through human vanity and marvel. A modern zombie walking through a world paradoxically collapsing through increasingly inconclusive boundaries. I never want to be an exculpatory product, granted permissibly some status of acceptability. A model created specifically to counteract deficit is merely an artificial appendage, ultimately residing within a dominant, pervasive social disposition towards maintaining and perpetuating a 'universal'; universal that is as science allows, with accountable anomalies. And so now my day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year life must follow the laws as preordained by aforementioned anomalies.
I will never apologise for any socially perceivable abnormality, regarded without access to the strands that make up my whole. Most days my hands, and even beyond, will tremor with an astonishing ferocity, a symptom progressively worse and apparent. I never asked for any extra time in academic exams which, towards the end of the three hour plus period, I could not, in all honestly, trust what I had in fact written: more a polygraph than a serious academic treatise. Now, at this moment, for example, I have forced myself to push through any embarrassment born through strangers seeing how my hands seem at pains to manoeuvre the simplest peripheral object, may it be phone or pen. This is my reality. As is bouts of aggressive insomnia only balanced through all-consuming fatigue. More examples? A soul destroying, progressive social anxiety that may strike in varying degrees, but always combats against a rationality I with ease, and now frustration, can map completely yet, in experience-dictated reality, simply gets disregarded; modes of experience that simply are, immovable and, in the end, adapted to degree one allows, the other eventuality being total detachment from that aforementioned ‘universal nature’: no longer an anomaly but extinct. All these debilitating manifestations exist through an oxymoronic lens; my life would otherwise simply not exist. Neurotoxic medications in ultimately lethal doses perpetuate what I will always regard a gift, despite the tears, the existence perennially uncharted, uncertain, the only persistent truth a degradation, physically and mentally, back to that corporeal void. A gift of life hindered by needing adequate time to accept and negotiate certain hardships and heart breaking fact. It has taken me five years already to reach in real terms a state of mind I rationally grasped all along. Alas! I will be the most sorry to accept that these now stand as five years lost, not to a natural youthful learning curve, but form a staggering fraction of that gift of life given. Five years on to learn to accept a new life, yet now already burdened by the consequences of neurotoxicity. 70 pills a week to keep yet kill me, both to the bystander in unacceptable behavioural or physiological traits, and under the surface. It was no happy event when I learned I had reached a lifetime-landmark: in no sugar-coated terms my kidneys are failing. Never pity me, when I can ever now only be as I must be. So, I will never beg any forgiveness, but can only now provide in real terms to any who feel they need know that I am allowed to appear not myself, for who is this ‘myself’ if I am the last person who could possibly know him?
The years B.N.L (before new liver) had contained with them temporal facts, immovable and true, yet also formulated all the foundations of hope and expectation: I have lost my only, albeit perhaps only flimsy in actuality, opportunity to trace that elusive ‘future’. What now could possibly provide me with the same comfort given the majority whom have retained their map to regarding the relationship between mental, spatial and all the ‘other’? Nothing. That is what, expect perhaps a map born from entirely new foundations and which, I now know a priori, for myself seem only perceivable after a now significantly regarded five years have passed! It was perhaps three years in the making that I even allowed myself any personal pity, brushing any sentiment other than gratitude off my shoulder lest I appear ungrateful for the life, through all intents and purposes, I should not naturally possess. Ha, my very life has been made manifest through human vanity and marvel. A modern zombie walking through a world paradoxically collapsing through increasingly inconclusive boundaries. I never want to be an exculpatory product, granted permissibly some status of acceptability. A model created specifically to counteract deficit is merely an artificial appendage, ultimately residing within a dominant, pervasive social disposition towards maintaining and perpetuating a 'universal'; universal that is as science allows, with accountable anomalies. And so now my day-to-day, month-to-month, year-to-year life must follow the laws as preordained by aforementioned anomalies.
I will never apologise for any socially perceivable abnormality, regarded without access to the strands that make up my whole. Most days my hands, and even beyond, will tremor with an astonishing ferocity, a symptom progressively worse and apparent. I never asked for any extra time in academic exams which, towards the end of the three hour plus period, I could not, in all honestly, trust what I had in fact written: more a polygraph than a serious academic treatise. Now, at this moment, for example, I have forced myself to push through any embarrassment born through strangers seeing how my hands seem at pains to manoeuvre the simplest peripheral object, may it be phone or pen. This is my reality. As is bouts of aggressive insomnia only balanced through all-consuming fatigue. More examples? A soul destroying, progressive social anxiety that may strike in varying degrees, but always combats against a rationality I with ease, and now frustration, can map completely yet, in experience-dictated reality, simply gets disregarded; modes of experience that simply are, immovable and, in the end, adapted to degree one allows, the other eventuality being total detachment from that aforementioned ‘universal nature’: no longer an anomaly but extinct. All these debilitating manifestations exist through an oxymoronic lens; my life would otherwise simply not exist. Neurotoxic medications in ultimately lethal doses perpetuate what I will always regard a gift, despite the tears, the existence perennially uncharted, uncertain, the only persistent truth a degradation, physically and mentally, back to that corporeal void. A gift of life hindered by needing adequate time to accept and negotiate certain hardships and heart breaking fact. It has taken me five years already to reach in real terms a state of mind I rationally grasped all along. Alas! I will be the most sorry to accept that these now stand as five years lost, not to a natural youthful learning curve, but form a staggering fraction of that gift of life given. Five years on to learn to accept a new life, yet now already burdened by the consequences of neurotoxicity. 70 pills a week to keep yet kill me, both to the bystander in unacceptable behavioural or physiological traits, and under the surface. It was no happy event when I learned I had reached a lifetime-landmark: in no sugar-coated terms my kidneys are failing. Never pity me, when I can ever now only be as I must be. So, I will never beg any forgiveness, but can only now provide in real terms to any who feel they need know that I am allowed to appear not myself, for who is this ‘myself’ if I am the last person who could possibly know him?
