I fake it well. I really do. Through a tough day with a staff member who had to be disciplined even though I like him, through a hard workshop, through telling my family, I fake it well.
I do what needs to be done. I do my job. I do it well.
Everything I’ve ever been trained to do, I do. By God, I’m a lady.
Right up until the more or less entire bottle of wine and you realize, I can’t fake it anymore.
I take care of everything. Until I realize, there’s no one to take care of me.
Maybe it’s not a surprise to you. Maybe you saw this coming.
But I’m kind of not ok.
I have a degenerative, chronic disease. It will rob me of . . . everything.
I’ll just be on my hotel room bed. Sobbing.
I can make jokes, try and adjust my attitude, but really. . . .
I’m kind of not ok with this.
I realize you thought I was.
I realize you thought I changed my mind.
I’ve changed my mind.