When I first realized I was chronically ill I was 35 years old. That would probably seem strange to those that know me given that I’m almost 37 years old, but here I am in a hospital room on day two of having a prolonged eeg study of my brain. Life. Is. Weird.
Often times, I think that those of us born with a condition of any sort, but especially one that is typically debilitating like mine is, learn to push past fear and labels and just keep going. We don’t consider ourselves to be chronically ill, or only our medical condition(s) but rather just ourselves. There is a survival instinct that is engrained in us down to our bone marrow when we often don’t think there is any end in sight. Life is a never ending journey of hospitals, misconceptions, tears, joy, and making friends with hospital staff because where they work is your “safe zone” and it just makes sense to get to know them too. They’re apart of your world for life a lot of the time. And they’re also interesting and whip smart, and when you’re inquisitive super awesome to get to know. Hospital food can sometimes be pretty tasty too.
There is no one person to blame when you have a condition. The condition is there to be dealt with and hopefully survived. However, I think what many folks find unusual about me is that I don’t hate God for the traumas I’ve experienced as a result of mine. I know that those traumas aren’t His fault and that He is the only thing that matters. He is the still small voice at the back of my brain telling me to just keep going. That knowledge has made all that difference in this wild and wonderful journey that is my life.