I am dying.

Or at least, that is what it feels like. Now, yes—before anyone starts—maybe I am being dramatic. But also… respectfully… no. This does not feel survivable. This feels like the kind of illness that makes you start reflecting on your life choices and wondering if this is how you’ll be remembered. Dramatic? Maybe. Accurate? Also maybe.

I am sick.

Not the cute little cough cough, achoo, grab some tissues and carry on kind of sick.

No.

I am the fever-dream, sweating-through-the-sheets, bargaining-with-the-universe, praying-to-the-porcelain-god kind of sick. The kind of sick where your body betrays you in ways you didn’t even know were possible. Where your bones hurt. Your skin hurts. Your hair somehow hurts. Why does my hair hurt? Explain that.

I feel like death.

I look like death too, if we’re being honest. If I walked past a mirror in a horror movie, I’d be the thing lurking behind the main character. And the worst part? I don’t even know what this is. Is it the flu? RSV? COVID making a dramatic comeback tour? Did I somehow contract swine flu? Bird flu? A combo platter of all of them?

Or is it something even more ridiculous—like allergies deciding to absolutely wreck me for no reason? At this point, I wouldn’t even rule out the plague. Yes. The plague. Black Death. Medieval vibes. Bring out the cloaks and ominous chanting. Because whatever this is… it needs to leave me alone.

Immediately.

I hurt. Everywhere.

There is not a single part of me that feels untouched by this nonsense. My head is pounding, my body aches like I went ten rounds in a boxing ring, and my energy levels are somewhere between “barely alive” and “please just roll me into the void.”

Honestly, just hit me over the head with a baseball bat at this point. It might be more merciful. And listen… I have had thoughts. Not good thoughts. Not responsible adult thoughts. More like:
“Hmm… how much NyQuil is too much NyQuil?”

(For legal and life-preserving reasons, we are not going to explore that question.) I just need to get better. That’s it. That’s the goal. Survival. Recovery. Returning to the land of the functioning. Because this—this current state—is not it.

So if you’ve noticed my absence, dear reader… this is why. I have been taken down. Betrayed by my own immune system. Left to fend for myself in a battlefield of tissues, blankets, and questionable life decisions.

But mark my words…

(enter Terminator voice here)

I will be back.

Probably still a little dramatic.
Possibly still slightly unwell.
But back nonetheless.

— Bella Imperia

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