I have gone on an unintended two week hiatus from my blog. I have found that in general my life is always better when I’m writing regularly, and since I have not been able to do so I have felt a piece of myself missing. The reason for my absence was largely due to the fact that right as I was starting to find my groove in life, working towards each of my most paramount goals, I was suddenly floored by several bouts of sickness that made doing much of anything exceedingly difficult.
First it was strep throat followed by severe GERD. After wrestling with different medications and adjusting my eating habits even more so, I was able to get my GERD mostly under control. I thought that I was going to be able to resume my hard work until I came down with an Upper Respiratory Infection, and for all my stubbornness I finally had to stop absolutely everything and rest. I became so weak I could hardly walk and struggled to breathe with the weight in my chest from the infection, and ultimately had to call upon a dear friend as well as my boyfriend to assist me in the Emergency Room. Despite it all, I am happy to say that I am now in Wichita, Kansas for the week, able to breathe and enjoying a much needed rest from the insanity that has been my life.
Through all this temporary sickness piling atop my chronic illnesses that I battle each day, I started to think, “I am so tired of dealing with illness and being sick. I don’t want to think about it anymore or have anything to do with it.” This thought was awfully distressing considering I have devoted myself to this blog which is mostly about living with chronic illness at a young age. This brought me to an inner conflict that started to break me.
A few weeks ago I had one of my many existential crises and I flew into a mental frenzy. I wondered if it was healthy for me to focus so much on my chronic illnesses and write about it as I had desired to for so long, and if this was really what I was meant to do. My goal had always been to write in order to help both myself and others like me, but I wondered if that was what I was really accomplishing. If writing was not what I was meant to do, have I wasted the past two years on something that would amount to absolutely nothing? I felt like I had no direction, the future I had seen myself so clearly in now turning into a jumbled, blurry mess.
I ended up calling my friend Brian to talk to him about it, explaining what triggered my crisis and where it had lead me. I told him that I wanted so badly to make something beautiful out of all the suffering I have endured throughout my life, but I also needed to survive, and maybe finding a “normal” job was the best option since I nowhere near surviving right now. I explained how exhausted of suffering and how the peaceful, more composed life I dream of always seem to fall short of my hands. After my explanation, he repeated to me one of his catch phrases that he has told to me a thousand times before. “I think you are doing the right thing,” he said firmly, “but the right thing to do is sometimes the hardest.”
Here I sit in a new friend’s lovely home in Kansas. His home is lovely and comfortable and filled with things he and his fiancee love, included their sweet dog Thunder. I am thankful for the opportunity to visit a new place, but every time I meet someone my age who seems to have their life together, I can’t help but think, “this is all I’ve ever wanted, won’t it happen for me too?”
Some people in life are extremely lucky. They grow up healthy in loving families, go to college, find stable jobs, and the rest of life continues on. Others are less fortunate and consistently fight through life. I haven’t the slightest idea what makes the difference, or how one life can end up so unlike another. In my writing I reaffirm that those of us who suffer from abuse, chronic illness, or a lack of stability in the most important parts of life a battle are never less deserving of happy. We can still have fantastic lives, however it does take more time, energy, and resilience to get to that same point others seem to come to so easily. For all my desire and jealousy, I easily forget that I too am on my way. I may not have very much money or even a home, but nevertheless, I am on my way.
There is a painfully cliche proverb used in times such of these, and if you know me at all, you know that I have no tolerance for finding them in most writing, especially my own. Yet every now and then, I come to a point in my life where I think, “damn. Confucius was onto something,” and I have no choice but to use one of them. So here it goes:
It does not matter how slowly you go as long as you do not stop.
I hope to get back into the regular swing of my life once I return from vacation, and most of that includes working towards the future I yearn for. For now, I hope to enjoy my short visit here with my boyfriend, good friends, and the lovely warm weather.
This is gospel for the fallen ones,
Locked away in permanent slumber.
Assembling their philosophies,
From pieces of broken memories.
Their gnashing teeth and criminal tongues conspire against the odds;
But they haven’t seen the best of us yet.