I never really understood why anyone would stop treatment for a disease if there was a chance, no matter how slim, that they could pull through. However, my own experiences over the last two years have opened my eyes to a new perspective. I can appreciate why someone would grow weary of being unwell, either at the hands of the disease ravaging their body, the medicine being administered to treat the sickness, or a combination of both.
I don’t know what plagues me. There has not been a name officially slapped on my litany of symptoms. What I do know is that I feel like garbage. I cannot remember the last time I felt truly well. Every day my body revolts against me in some way. There does seem to be a discernible pattern at this point, but I cannot tell you what it means. My doctor sort of put me on hold until I got my useless records from my former doctor; a task which I forget to do until it is no longer convenient to do so (time zone differences do not help).
The point is, I have grown incredibly weary of feeling like this. It inhibits so many things. I cannot be on my feet too long. I cannot sit too long. Food is necessary but oftentimes my body rebels against its consumption. How many social events surround food? Sleep often eludes me because of strange spasms, queasiness, intense pain and/or anxiety. My house is a disaster zone. No matter how hard I try my kids are two steps ahead of me.
When I say my house is a disaster zone I do not mean, “Oh gosh! Pardon the mess in the background!” Meanwhile, the background is two dishes on the counter or a small pile of clothes in a chair that need to be folded. I cannot see my kitchen sink (and it’s a double sink, albeit a small one). The laundry keeps piling up and I keep scrambling to keep up with it, never catching up. It did not used to be as hard. Everything is harder. It fuels my depression. The guilt wells up. This is my job and I am failing!
I am afraid to make friends because I have nothing to offer in return. I am unreliable because of my constant swinging pendulum of symptoms. I do not know if I will wake up in a manageable state or a state that renders me entirely useless. It oftentimes relegates me to a sobbing mess. Sobbing messes only blend into the existing mess, they don’t tidy it.
Some days I ask God why I am here. He immediately answers, but the fact that I get to that point scares me.
Some days I want to throw in the towel and just curl up in a ball, forget the world, but I have two little ones who need me. They need me on. It breaks my heart they get to see me broken so often. I keep hearing this voice in my head shouting at me to be stronger. Guilt doesn’t help anything, though.
So, at least these trials seem to allow me a new perspective. Whether it will allow me to be there for someone down the road, I don’t know. I am still waiting to see where I can use my dreadful hospital experience from when I was fifteen. Maybe I have used it. I don’t know! I don’t know much these days it feels like.
I do press on, but I don’t feel brave or valiant. I feel like this is all my fault somehow. However, I appreciate those of you who do see me otherwise. It does encourage me, even if it does not entirely register.
I haven’t written for awhile, so I figured I was due to write something just to let anyone who stumbles upon this know that I am alive, if not well!
…Which immediately reminded me of “Still Alive” from Portal. One of the first songs we sang as a lullaby to our baby girl. She loved it.
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