How did I get here?

For the past 14 months, I have been so focused on overcoming the “30 day odyssey” that I have lost myself. I have lost my joy, my ability to find humor in all things, my patience, my determination, and most importantly my hope. I love my job, but I struggle every day to get out of bed and go to it. I love my friends, but I struggle to get up and get dressed to see them. I love to read, but have not been able to finish a book in over a year. I love to laugh, but for the first hour or so I’m in any situation I find myself faking it until I make it. Some days I do make it, other days I force it until I am too exhausted to deal with it anymore. I struggle to talk about all of these things. I struggle to admit that I am struggling to come back to myself and don’t even know where to begin. I struggle with the fact that I have thought “death might be better than this existence.” on a regular basis. I struggle with this being my reality, but it is and I am going to talk about it, regardless of how taboo the topic is.

It occurred to me today, that all of these issues run much deeper than the events of the last fourteen months. When I was a baby/toddler, I had three different surgeries before the age 3. When I was a kid, it was constant kidney issues. When I was 12, I was diagnosed with the “worst adolescent case” of tmj my specialist had ever seen. When I hit puberty I grew in to brutal allergies. When I was 14, I was diagnosed with my first ulcer, chronic esophagitis, and GERD. When I was 18, I was diagnosed with PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome). When I was 21, gastroparesis. 24, gallbladder removal. 25, chronic sinisitis, nasal surgery and tonsillectomy. 27, major foot surgery. 28-29, sphincter of oddi dysfunction, 5 ERCPs (4 with stent placement), 4 Endoscopies. 31, Duodenojejunostomy, jejunaljejunostomy, g/j tube placement, muscle biopsy.

My medical history is lengthy and complicated. It has been compiled by several different doctors, all hopeful at they could help, and all eventually admitting that they did not know what was wrong with me and that they could no longer help me. I have been broken up with by more doctors than I have boyfriends. Seven different specialist have looked me dead in the eye and said “I don’t know, you are an enigma”. Yes, it’s a running joke in my family. But do you know what it does to a person to feel as awful as I feel every day, to be paraded in front of countless doctors and nurses, tested in all way imaginable, and have them tell you they can’t find any cause? To have them say “you shouldn’t still be feeling like this….” “Physiologically there’s nothing wrong with you….” “That medication should be working….” “You can’t really be in that much pain all the time….” “You can’t be vomiting that often….”. I’ll tell you what it did to me. It made me doubt myself, it made me wonder if it was in fact psychosomatic, or if this is just what normal adults feel like. It made me lose faith in medical professionals. It made me feel incredibly isolated and frustrated and angry and hopeless. It made me slowly retreat into myself, to talk less and less about my medical situation, to just grin and bear it until it was unbearable. And I have felt this way on a daily basis for the past 13 years.

Are you all a surprised? Or saying “damn, I had no idea?”. I’m sure you are. Because like most obstacles I’ve faced in my life, I put my head down and trudge right on through. I don’t talk about it, I don’t process it, I don’t draw attention to it. But that has to change. If I am going to find my way back to the things and people I love, I need to talk about the dark stuff that drew me away. I also need to start coming to terms with the fact that I am chronically ill, how much of a toll this chronic illness has had on my life to date, and how much it will continue to impact the rest of my life. I think, in the back of my head I truly believed that one day a doctor would give me a cure. That they would be able to fix whatever was wrong, and I’d go back to living a normal life. What normal life? I don’t know, because I’m not sure I’ve ever had one medically speaking. And if I did, I certainly do not remember it.

So how do I dig myself out of this hole? For me, it starts with writing this. With admitting openly that I am struggling mentally, emotionally, and physically. With letting you all have a little peak into what’s happening in my head, hoping you will take it in, and offer support/comfort/your help. With me asking for your continued patience as I find my way back. And with me owning my truths, regardless of how dark they are.