Confusion supplants blind determination

Here we are, two weeks before our trip, one week before my tummy poke and two hours before a speech therapist evaluates my voice, of which little remains and I find myself wondering whether I've been on any kind of track conducive to better health or not.
I fight myself constantly, beating my brains to a pulp, shredding my mind, obliquely aware that as ALS shuts down my body, screwing with what's left is nothing less than foolish. Nonetheless, I still battle, fight rather than flight, not sure what else to do, singularly aware of my Custer mentality. Not fighting seems counter productive to me, though fighting an unidentifiable enemy blindly hasn't seemed to have slowed the onslaught to my body. I have concluded little over the last couple of years outside of the dreary realization that much of what I theorized last year constitutes today's condition. I need to refrain from prediction. I am sick of my own cluelessness. Every day the bar lowers for me. I guess when it lies upon the floor and I can no longer crawl beneath it, I die. Morbid as it sounds, simple and straightforward, the reality remains complicated and unfocused, less morbid yet more depressing. All of this negativity constitutes the core of my illness, I know. Escaping this enigma is paramount. Not fighting or running leaves me in a quandary. I find myself anything but predisposed to solutions other. Pardon my word-weird sentence structure, sometimes it helps feed my inner evil, visualizing readers struggling over whether I'm trying to be clever or whether I'm just dumb. Joke's on you, joke's on me.