I sit here watching General Hospital crying. Now this is not entirely out of character considering we spend nearly an hour together five days a week and have for almost a decade. That is no small investment in time. I watch the characters go through a catastrophic nightmare about every six weeks, with lots of far-fetched fluff and long camera pans into the distance in between. It's easy to cry when tragedy strikes, especially considering I get fired up over my own woes watching the twists and turns of their dramatized tribulations. While mine are not nearly as horrific as the soap opera inflicts, and I don't return back into a healthy rich woman with as many lovers as enemies between incidents before chaos strikes again, oh yes I will still say I am a sucker. One who usually cries when someone is married, born, falls in love, dies or survives.
So what has a misty-eyed flared-up isolation-deprived lass such as myself all upset? Because they are rejoicing. And I'm not really upset, I want to join them. They are celebrating having just survived near-extinction from a neurotoxin leaked into the town's water supply. Seriously. And as they dance around in the rain I cry happy tears because it dawns on me the only reason to work so hard to survive trauma is to celebrate it. Celebrate surviving it. And celebrate the life that is ours still, no matter what we endure. Because every day is a victory when sick, it just is.
Thanks for joining,
Leah
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