synonym for tragic - Google Search

I'm navigating a super difficult time with chronic illness, and writing helps me process. I wrote this last week:

...

Here we are again. 

All the versions of myself colliding into one and returning to this tragically comfortable, rotting, space of clarity. I am sick.

Again.

Or still.

Still sick. And still alive.

I used to pray for cancer. All the time as a kid. I probably read A Walk to Remember too early (a novel by Nicholas Sparks). 6th grade. I saw the movie, too. I became obsessed with this idea that a young tragic death, after making an imprint on the world, would give me relief. It would change something. Because I couldn’t change anything. Or so I thought. 

So I’m here, yet again. Still here. Still. And it feels like the end. As I arrive in the present and reflect on my past, dreams of the future slip out of my fingers. Like they belong in another dimension. Perhaps they do. Parallel universes or something. Hell if I know. 

That’s the thing. There is so much I don’t know. How to keep a job. How to date. How to stay independently financially secure. How to navigate my chronic illness.

I say all that, while also knowing: there is something special that I do know. I know that this is all temporary. Plus, I actually have done all these things, in spite of this knowing. I have kept a job, for some amount of time. I have dated, yep, tried it. I have provided for myself, to the best of my ability, despite my disability. And I have and still am navigating the medical mystery that is my health.

I know that this is all temporary. I feel it. I see it. I hear it. I love it. That makes life on earth fleetingly difficult. Or, beautiful. Depending on the day. I know I’m not alone in this. I know I’m not a monk. I know my awareness comes and goes. And again, here we are again. I’m always writing about this. I’m always writing. 

I write when my body has nothing. When my eyes leak with steaming tears of frustration. When my muscles ache. When my head is floating. When my hands are stuck in the sand. I can still pull them out. They simply rise to the page or keyboard. My thoughts are clear. My voice is loud. And I like to hear it. It both soothes and scares me at the same time. I imagine, as I often do, how someone else might respond to this, or perhaps another/future/parallel version of myself. Likely also soothed and scared. Possibly inspired. Possibly amused. Possibly saddened. This is something I know and don’t know at the same time. Time... I don’t understand time. 

Here. we. are. again.