coming clean.

My last post was July 24th, 2019. In that post I promised to be more open with all of you and to post more often, considering it’s now January 2020, I fell through on that promise. This time, however, I’m not going to apologize for not posting for six months. A lot of things happened between then and now that are really hard for me to share — things that are hard for me to even write about. This includes major things in my personal life and my health. How do you find words for feelings you don’t understand? How do you find words to describe events that you wish never happened? I’m having a really hard time finding the right words. 

I’m not going to share every little thing that happened in the last six months, but I do want to tell you about three important lessons I learned…

First, it’s really hard to heal emotionally when you can’t catch a break physically, and it’s a lot easier to put on a fake smile than to admit you’re breaking inside. In most of my previous posts, I mentioned my struggles with overcoming the emotional trauma my physical health has caused. Each time I think an emotional scar has healed, something happens with my health and those scars burst open. You add the traditional bumps and bruises that come with life to those scars, and suddenly you’re drowning. 

In John Greene’s The Fault in Our Stars, one of the characters says the thing about pain is that it demands to be felt. I didn’t think much of this the first time I read the book, but somehow nearly eight years later, it’s the one sentence from the novel that stands out the most to me. It feels like I’m in this never ending cycle between physical pain and emotional pain, and I can’t escape it — it demands to be felt. I’m learning how to cope, and each day is a little different, but what matters is I’m coping and doing it with a smile on my face because if I don’t smile, I’ll probably just cry. 

Second, there’s a fine line between having a chronic illness and being a hypochondriac, and it’s easier for people, sometimes even your friends, to label you as a hypochondriac than to attempt to understand what it’s like living with a chronic illness. I realized that people likely do this unintentionally. I can see it in the facial expressions of my friends and the weariness in their eyes. I can sense it in the texts that go unanswered or the events that I’m not invited to. I can feel it in the way that people change the subject when I spend more than a few minutes talking about my health. I don’t blame them, but I do think this has caused me to subconsciously isolate myself from my friends. Believe me, I’m tired of talking about my health, too. I would do anything to talk about the fun night out I had last weekend or the stress of the medical school application process, but I don’t get to experience any of those things right now because my health is overshadowing everything else in my life. 

This has weighed heavily on my heart for a while now. Not being able to do the same things as my peers makes me feel like a failure in many ways — as a student, as a friend, and even as a human being sometimes. I don’t want to dwell on those feelings anymore. By sharing this with you, I’m hoping that I can really start to let go and live more freely, even though my chronic illness is here to stay.   

Third, sometimes there is no positive lesson to be learned. Sometimes things are just really sucky, and there’s nothing you can do about it except push through and hope for better days. This has probably been the hardest thing for me to accept. I’ve always coped by seeing the positive in things and telling myself “everything happens for a reason and somehow good will come from this.” I spent the last 23 years trying to convince myself that I really believed that. I thought maybe if I said it enough, I’d really feel it. The truth is I don’t believe in this, and I’m okay with that. Sometimes things just suck. I don’t like to use that word but it’s true. Sometimes life isn’t fair, and it feels like you’re always getting the short end of the stick. In those moments, it’s okay to be sad or mad, to feel defeated and hopeless. I’ve learned to let myself feel those emotions, even though it sometimes makes me feel crazy. 

I know my last few posts haven’t been very positive or uplifting, but I’m beginning to recognize the importance of sharing these things. At some point in the last year, I started to let my chronic illness rule my life and define me as a person. I’m not sure when it happened. Maybe one day I woke up and it was written across my forehead, or maybe it happened gradually and with each obstacle thrown my way, I lost a little more of myself. Regardless of when or how it happened, I know that it happened and I’m committed to taking back charge of my life. I have so many things I want to accomplish and I’m determined to realize my dreams even if my health doesn’t get any better. 

With that being said, I’ve been working on a list of things I would like to do or start doing in 2020, and in my next post I’m going to share that list with you guys so you can help hold me accountable.

Thank you for standing by me and supporting me even though I keep writing about the same thing over and over again. Sometimes I feel lonely, and then I remember the incredible support system I have found in each of you and suddenly my heart is full again.

 

how to breathe when you want to give up

 by Cleo Wade

today I am breathing through fatigue, fear, and feeling overwhelmed. 

I breathe because when I breathe, I am reminded that I am alive.

I am reminded that to be able to fill my body with air means that I have the ability to keep going. 

I am reminded that my time on earth may be short but it can be powerful if I dedicate it to love and fairness.

when I breathe

I am reminded of Mary Oliver when she wrote,

“tell me, what is it you plan to do with your one wild and precious life?”

so I breathe

and let my breath

turn into a smile that says back to her,

“as much as I can.”