Day 35.

     I’ve been taking a few days off from blogging, trying to get my head back on straight. Sometimes my condition feels like just too much to handle. I know it’s been over a month now. I’ve heard before–I mean, I might be wrong about this, but all I can say is that this is what I’ve heard–I’ve heard that it takes 21 days to form a habit. 21 days for something to become a given in a person’s life. Something a person’s gotten used to. And it’s been more than 21 days now, certainly. So I can’t really call my situation new anymore, and I can’t say that on some some level I’m not already used to it.
     I used to wake up in the morning, this was just a few weeks ago, I used to wake up and think, how is this my life? What have I become? These thoughts were intertwined with desperate feelings of denial, and of false hope that I’d return to my previous state, the awful condition that’d overtaken me relegated to a painful, but maybe eventually laughable, footnote in a full life I’d lead. Now, though, I feel like I have those warring thought processes a little more in check. Would I love to be myself again? Of course. But I have to get used to this new me, and like I said, in some ways, I already am. I mean, there are people way worse off, right? There have to be. And at least I can still think clearly, you know? So there’s that. For the time being, at least. I’m just trying to keep some perspective in all of this.

Day 31.

     I just got up. I’ve decided Thursdays are going to be my day off, now. Every Thursday I’ll be taking a personal day, where I just lie in bed all day. I won’t think about what’s become of my life, my soul, myself. If I even still have any of those things. I just–I need a break from this. Sometimes writing in this blog feels like that break, feels like a reprieve from the day to day. Other times it just reminds me of my situation. So, I decided Thursdays are going to be devoted to reminding myself what’s worthwhile in life, or whatever this is. I spent the day just sleeping, trying to remember better times. There were better times than this. That I’m sure of. Anyway, after I write this I’m going to read a little and just generally take it easy. I feel like I deserve it. I think I do.
     One of the things I spent a lot of time thinking about while in bed today was whether or not I should email Lily. It’s been six months now. That’s a really long time. To be honest, I got started thinking about her again after the conversation with Sara. I wondered who else would stumble upon my blog. Then I realized that she’d probably never want to see my name again, so, I guess that’s that. Maybe one day she’ll be ready to talk. I don’t even know if I am, honestly. But, it felt good to think about this stuff. Maybe I was a little hasty in trying to separate who I was beforehand from who I am now. I might need to re-think that. For now, though, I’m just going to try and take it easy for the rest of the day. Wish me luck.

Day 29.

     Okay, first of all, it was an accident. I just want to preface the story of what happened today by saying that. It was completely an accident and I’m not at all responsible. Just keep that in mind. I didn’t expect it to happen, I didn’t intend for it to happen, and I don’t even think–I don’t think you could fairly say it’s my fault. It’s really not. When you read this and get it in your head to accuse me, just keep this in mind. Remember this.
     Today I made contact for the first time.
     I was sitting at the computer today, listening to some music. Just some soft 70’s rock, that kind of thing. After a few minutes, I heard a loud knock at my front door. Just as a reminder, it’s been about a month and not a single person had knocked on my door up to that point. I made my way over, slowly. I figured by the time I made it there, I’d look through the peephole and there would be nobody outside. When I finally arrived at the door, I peeked out, and there stood Mrs. Anderson. If you recall, it was about a week ago that I wondered how she’d react to seeing me, and now here she was, the first person I’d seen in what felt like forever.
     Anyway, I watched her out there, and just waited for her to go away, but she didn’t. “Chad,” she yelled after a few more knocks, “are you in there?” I couldn’t have responded even if I wanted to, so I just kept on waiting. “Chad,” she continued, “if you’re there, please answer the door.” I was sure she couldn’t hear the music, so there was no reason for her to think I was definitely home. “Chad,” she then said, “I can hear you in there. People in the building are a little worried. Please come out.”
     When I heard that I guess this sort of uncontrollable inertia hit me. I felt compelled to just open the door and have her see me and I was sure she’d be able to look at me and not drop dead of shock and instead she’d see what I was going through and somehow go and get me help of some kind even though I knew this was all completely illogical for the moment it just didn’t matter so I opened the door and she looked at me.
     She took one long look, and said a soft “oh my god.” Before I could stop her, she reached her hand up, and touched the side of what I can barely still call my face. I immediately recoiled, and swiftly ducked back into the apartment and closed the door, all in one quick motion. Quicker than I thought possible. Maybe it just seemed fast to me. Still, I knew that however quickly I might have moved away, it wasn’t fast enough. It was too late. I’d made contact. I stumbled back toward my bed. Since this happened, hours ago, one thought has been stuck on “repeat” in my mind: you can’t ever leave again.

Day 28.

Time for some reader mail.

Girlfriend in a Coma writes,

“You shouldn’t stay shut up in your room forever…have you checked to see if there’s a support group for this sort of thing? There seems to be one for EVERYTHING these days.”

Girlfriend in a Coma, I’m not certain how you expect me to attend a support group when I can’t even leave my own apartment. Also, surely, a support group for those with my affliction would be pointless, as I suspect seeing others like me would not make me feel particularly comforted. Due to these factors, I suspect you’re joking, which is pretty insensitive to my situation. Don’t think I haven’t noticed the other comments you made. I deleted them for a reason.

Garth writes,

“Hey man, at this point what is the best possible outcome you can think of? Do you think optimistically about this at all? Outside of a potential book or movie, of course.”

I’m not certain what sort of revolutionary optimism you expect out of me, Garth. Given my situation, it strikes me that I’ve remained hopeful to an unbelievable degree. As to some better outcome, I think hoping for such a thing would be completely unrealistic. I’m trying to keep my expectations grounded and reasonable.

monoxide writes,

“I guess I can understand why you would have trouble coming to terms with what has happened to you. I know i would be freaking out. But if it was me I would adapt to it and who knows, you might actually enjoy it : D. As far as you being the only one, I don’t think that is the case, I bet you money that there are others just like….Hundreds, maybe thousands. I think you should take a chance and get back out into “the world you used to know”. I guess its easier said than done but hopefully you can muster the confidence.”

Thanks for the extremely long-winded, condescending, and not remotely understanding comment, “monoxide.” You “guess” you can understand why I might be having trouble. You suggest I might grow to “enjoy” my condition. This is followed by a grinning emoticon. I knew freaks like you would come out of the woodwork when I started this blog. The suggestion that I go back out into the world is strange and entirely unhelpful. I also don’t think it’s about “mustering the confidence,” as you put it. It might have a little something to do with not being able to leave my apartment, though. Nor knowing if I’d endanger others by doing so. You might want to keep these factors in mind.

redhollywood writes,

“Dude why don’t you have someone send a doctor or something?”

Let’s see, redhollywood, why don’t I have someone send a doctor or something? Well, maybe, it could have a little something to do with caring about other human beings. Not wanting to infect someone. Like, let’s say I have a doctor come here. Let’s say I don’t flip out and attack him or anything, because, honestly, whatever your ideas about someone like me, I have no desire to. Let’s say he touches my skin, tries to check my pulse or something. For all I know, that’s going to infect him and make him just like me. Great idea, redhollywood. I think I know a reader you’d like to meet. His name’s monoxide.

ANT to the ONIO writes,

“Can you talk or do you choose not to? Also if you’re rotting away, don’t you think eventually you would die? That means you wouldn’t be able to enjoy your delusions of grandeur, I mean success. I think you should see a doctor and actually give it a try to get better because you don’t know when something important is going to stop working. Even if you’re not eating. Maybe after you’re better you can tell your story. Best of luck. I’ll be back to check what you think.”

First of all, that’s an extremely long internet handle. Don’t you get tired of writing it out? Sorry. I’m feeling a little snippy after a couple of extremely dumb and poorly conceived questions. Anyway, onto your own questions. Let’s see–I can not talk, I do not know if I will eventually die, I don’t appreciate you referring to my aspirations as delusions of grandeur. Oh, another doctor suggestion. Brilliant. See above. As for getting better, my hopes aren’t high, but we’ll see. Finally, regardless of your preposterous suggestion that I go see a doctor, I do appreciate your well wishes.

That’s all for the reader mail edition. I’ll do another one of these in a week or two if enough people write comments with questions in them. Just don’t suggest that I see a doctor. Thanks.

Day 26.

     Yesterday was kind of a weird day. I slept in, for once, which felt okay. I remember in college I used to sleep in all the time, sometimes right through my classes. It’s easy to forget that I now have that luxury once again, in a sense. Technically I could say that everything is “once again” now, what with my condition, but that’s a little existential for me. I can talk Emerson with the best of them, but I feel very tired of all that, these days. What this has really become for me, in some ways, is a kind of personal game–how long can I go without thinking about what’s become of my life, my body, myself? See, I can talk about it, nonchalantly, as long as I keep the reality of it from hitting me. I mean, I can try, at least. For now, I’m going to go with that feeling and see how far it can take me.
     Like I said, though, yesterday was weird. A little background, first, though. In case you’re not following the comments, I mentioned in reply to “Richard Grayson” that since this all started, I’ve become mute. In some ways, that’s been the biggest adjustment. I can’t leave the apartment or anything, but if I could talk on the phone or something, that would be–at this point, that would be really helpful. I can still dial my voicemail, though, and each one is kind of a treat, a link to an outside world where I still exist. Yesterday I got one from an old friend, Sara, who’d seen the blog, and wanted to tell me how funny it was, what a kick she’s been getting out of it, how I really had her going, etc., etc., etc. This isn’t a joke, so I found that extremely depressing and had to erase the message partway through listening to it.
     Then I went and lied down for a while. I wondered when Sara would realize the truth. Maybe when more of us come forward. Or when my book comes out. When the #1 bestseller is about what happens “when a man whose job is to find out what people are hiding is no longer a person himself.” That’s a little long, but I was thinking it could be the tagline for a movie, if they make one. I mean, when they make one. I’m hopeful on that front.

Day 24.

     I know it’s pretty late right now, but I’ve actually been up since 6 this morning. Since the loss of my left eyelid, it’s gotten tough to get to sleep, and even harder to stay asleep once the sun comes up. It was a nice sunrise, though. I absent-mindedly chewed through my finger while watching it, so that’s going be an adjustment, I guess. It tasted okay. One thing I’ve really noticed since this all began is that while I’m not, like, hungry for brains or any of that stereotypical bullshit, I am definitely eating less. I wonder why that is.
     I spend a lot of time thinking about stuff like this. I mean, I think that’s only natural, given the nature of my problem. It lends itself pretty well to sitting around and just…thinking about stuff. It’s not hard for me to do that–I got pretty used to it in my old line of work. I try not to dwell on the past, though. It’s been more than three weeks, and I’d like to think I’ve adjusted pretty well to this change in my situation. Which is putting it lightly, of course, but–lightly’s really all I’ve got right now. I know I mentioned a couple of weeks ago how the–severity of the situation hits me when I catch a glimpse of myself in a mirror. How I’d taken the mirrors down and covered up any remaining reflective surfaces with garbage bags. So that’s helped. If I can just keep a level head, try to see the lighter side of things, and figure out the next step, I know I’ll be okay.

Day 23.

     Here’s a new theory I’m working on. Bear with me, here. The Z word, right? It doesn’t really fit. I don’t feel like–that. How that’s been classically designed, detailed, spelled out, in like, movies you watch late at night, it’s not accurate. That’s why I’m keeping track here. There’s a record of all of this. This is a record. It’s history in the making in a sense, because when I get out of here, this is going on sale. I’m going to–one second, sorry, worm–okay. This is going straight to an agent. A book person. This is the true story, you know? That kind of verisimilitude sells. So when this is over, or, I mean, I don’t know if it’ll ever be over but when this is easier–I’m going to be rich.
     What I sometimes wonder is, are there other people out there, in my position? I mean, I have to assume there are. I don’t think I’m alone in this. I haven’t seen anything about it on the internet yet, though. I mean, there’s me, there’s this, but I don’t expect anyone to believe me, here. Maybe the others–maybe they just adapted quicker than me, maybe they’re out there and people don’t realize. Maybe people think they just have a skin condition or something. People tend to shy their eyes away from people like that, anyway. I mean, not that I’d blame them. I know I do the same. So, if they’re out there, I’d like to think they’re not writing a tell-all like I am. I mean, today has been an okay day. Writing this is comforting, you know? And thinking about my future success, that’s a comforting thought. Sure, the skin on my foot is entirely gone now. But at least I still have things I can take solace in, right?

Day 21.

     Opened the door a crack today, and peeked out. The neighboring apartment’s door was ajar. I started to open my own door moreso, creeping out slowly. Trying to keep it together. The moment I fell under the dire glare of the halogen bulb, though, I knew I couldn’t do it. What they would have seen then. I’m probably unique in this predicament, probably the only son of a bitch unlucky enough to…to be afflicted. I know this, and I’ve known it for, I guess this is what, three weeks now? So of course I closed the door.
     There was nothing else to do, you know? I mean, picture this. I slowly sidle out through my door, starkly lit under that oppressive bulb, and Mrs. Anderson steps out her front door, and sees me. She’s an old lady, like I said before. On Day 6, I mean, when I saw her through the peephole. She’s old. She catches one glimpse of my rotting corpse, and shit, I could literally scare her to death. I mean, I’ve been trying a lot of lotions–like, cocoa butter and shit. Face cream. That, what’s it called, Gold Bond Powder. That stuff’s been helping a little. I think. But it might all be psychosomatic. Don’t get me wrong. I know it can only do so much. I know that. I just think, like, one day, if I were able to–if someone saw me, maybe it wouldn’t be as bad as it could be. That’s all.