Ken and I both have the sick.

I blame Marian, but I could blame the gang at the O. I also blame myself for not washing my hands enough, not eating enough veggies, or for eating poorly over the holidays. I know it is my fault for getting run down, feeling blue, not exercising, and for leaving a sink full of dishes; allowing germs to collect and spread everywhere. I know I should wipe down the phone, change toothbrushes, and drink yucky apple cider vinegar with lemon instead of coffee with mucus forming cream. But I’d rather blame Marian for the hug she gave me on Christmas Eve.

I like to blame sickness on others; it keeps me from having to deal with the shame of sickness I feel. You know… the shame that I should live a better and healthier lifestyle. That being sick is just deserts and that I brought this on myself by getting run down or maybe I don’t care enough to take this precaution or that. Deep down I know I must not practice enough, eat well enough, or care enough to quit some bad habits. I hate the feeling that the sick is all my fault and that I could’ve, would’ve, should’ve done something more, better and different.

Getting sick is a pain in the ass. I really hate it. I hate Ken being sick too, but more than just about anything – I hate the feeling of shame that comes with the sick.

But the truth is, Marian started it.

It is so clear I am not ready to ascend.