That last part is for me… the “I am not a bad person” part. Or, if I am, it’s not because of the cold sore. But still, I feel so incredibly ashamed when I get one. Shame. It’s a powerful thing. I don’t know why, but this virus that flares when my immune system is compromised has my ego on tap and ready to party.
Two weeks ago, I fell ill in truly dramatic form – aches, pains, nausea, migraine, sinus pain, and the 102.4 fever… HOLY CRAP! It’s been a long time since I had that high of a fever and it kicked my butt. The cough came and took my breath away, and had at least semi-permanent intentions. The rest of the symptoms were gone after five or so days, but the cough is still trying to work its way out of my body today. I did the whole sick thing in record form. I surrendered, rested more than I had in years, and took all the advice I was offered to heart. I even drank hot tea. And I’m not a tea drinker.
Still, it was apparently too much for my immune system to deal with all that and still fight off the herpes simplex virus which resides somewhere in my body, waiting like a bottom-feeding scum sucker for the just right conditions to rear its ugly head. Or rear itself, making my head ugly… at least the right side of my lower lip. On day eight of this mess, I woke up with a cold sore. Damn. I really hate it when that happens.
I’ve seen other people’s cold sores; I’ve even looked at pictures online (although I don’t recommend that, as that research takes an almost immediate turn off the main road and onto some freaky, stomach-turning, nasty twist of a God-forsaken path of misery). I don’t mind other people’s. I don’t think they should feel ashamed. I feel compassion for their discomfort, physical and emotional, but mine don’t seem like the ones other people get. Yes, I already know that everybody feels that way but mine are so bad that people don’t usually even realize that it’s a cold sore.