Momma Mia, Mea Culpa

Have you ever tried really, really, really hard – and repeatedly – to make yourself feel better, but nothing seems to work? And no matter what you do, or how you do it, you just keep on getting sick, and you just keep on getting sicker, and you keep having flare ups, and you keep having even more flare ups. And some of those flare ups are really, really, scary. And some of those flare ups are really, really painful.

And because there’s nothing you can do to prevent those flare ups, thanks to extensive autoimmune issues, and because there’s nothing you can do to prevent from getting sick, you start to feel really, really, frustrated. And that frustration turns into anger. And that anger turns into rage. And that rage leads to a very dark depression. And that kind of depression makes you withdraw from the world. And then you feel really, really lonely.

And even though your family and friends are totally super supportive, and they want to be there for you – except that you don’t really want to socialize, because all you have to talk about are your medical problems, and side effects from medications, and the cost of prescriptions, or how many doctor appointments you have in one week. And that makes for some pretty lousy conversation, especially when you’re not 85 years old.

But what REALLY makes you THE MOST MAD is when you cook a special meal for your family, and you don’t eat any of it, not even ONE BITE, specifically to AVOID any kind of allergic reaction or flare up – only to wake up the next morning with a fat, swollen, puffy lip ANYWAY.  So when people ask questions like, “What did you eat?” basically insinuating you caused your own flare up, that just makes you want to stab them, in the throat, with unsharpened rusty scissors.

And you’re terrified – every single day – riddled with anxiety, because you never know what’s going to set off the next attack, or how bad the next attack will be, or how long the next attack will last, or who will be available to drive you to the Emergency Room when the next attack becomes life threatening.  So you walk around in a perpetual state of panic. And distress. And worry. And misery.

And you’re exhausted, simply from being trying to ‘positive’ for everyone else, all of the time. And you’re sick of of these rules and restrictions affecting the quality of your life – like avoiding certain foods, or not going to the movie theater because of your compromised immune system – because even when you follow all of those rules and restrictions, you still wind up in the hospital. Which just makes you want to give up, altogether. And you’re so fucking tired you can’t even muster up the strength to brush the mold off your teeth.

So you stop writing. And blogging. And reading. And commenting. And tweeting. And participating. And you just hideout, under the covers, watching television, while ‘suffering in silence’ because someone once told you there’s a type of dignity in keeping these kinds of problems to yourself.

Except that suffering in silence, only makes you feel even worse, because you really need to scream on the top of your lungs – and cry uncontrollably – to anyone willing to listen.

Because, seriously?

This shit just isn’t fucking fair.