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Writer's pictureSarah

Diaries of the Chronically Confused:

from bleak to bold; from loathing to loving.

 

Diary Entry: Chapter Two


It’s midday as I lay in bed. Too tired to hold my book open and get lost in the pages of another’s world. My ears too sensitive to lose myself to the narratives the television has to offer. My senses seem to be on overdrive as my tired body rests uncomfortably on my cotton sheets. The weight of the heating pad laying across my midsection pales in comparison to the weight of longing to have what once was: my health.


My mind races with needy thoughts that try to dim the usual brightness of my spirits. Thoughts of what I am missing out on. Such a waste of time to be so sedentary.


Thoughts of projects left unfinished, disrupted by the pain and fatigue plaguing my young body.


Thoughts of frustration that doctors cannot “figure me out”. Odd that with all this DNA I am still just another “unsolved mystery”, I quip to no one but myself.


Thoughts of the burden that being “sick” puts on my family, my friends, my bank account… it must be so exhausting to constantly check in on me, to take care of me, and to no longer be able to count on me the way they have for so many, many years.


I feel lazy and disconnected. I just am no longer the Sarah they signed on for.


It doesn’t seem to matter how many times my friends, family and husband tell me that they want to be there for me, support me, help me… I still can’t shake the feelings of being an obligation. Even though I know I would feel the same as they do if the tables were turned.


By tomorrow, I could feel totally fine. I could wake up in the morning and go throughout my day with few limitations or hindrances of my “normal” capabilities. These bleak thoughts, that are actually infinitesimal in comparison to all of the invigoration and joy I typically feel, could wash away. Until the next flare up.


Or, it could be another ten days in bed. That’s part of the confusion of whatever continues to afflict my system. There is so much unpredictability and instability—two states of being that I don't have much experience with.


I am used to being two steps ahead, able to anticipate even my worst enemy's next move. Good or bad, I have come to appreciate the invariable familiarity of my life. At least if things are predictable, I can manage my expectations around the possible outcomes.


But now... Symptoms vary day to day, week to week. Energy levels come and go. I really do have good days. But when I have bad ones, well, they can quite literally devastate and debilitate me. Leaving me to question my own self.


Am I really too weak to move? Am I somehow imagining this heaviness that burdens my body? The aches? The pains? Is it all in my head?


No, I think, it’s not. I recall the positive lab tests that confirm the Lyme disease. I think of the elevated liver enzymes, and all the other abnormalities that do explain at least some of the symptoms I experience.


I think of my naturopath’s response when I voice all of these thoughts to him, “It is absolutely not in your head, and you are certainly not causing this. That is the way of Lyme disease. To make you think you’re going crazy.” He says it with a compassionate firmness of someone who has been personally exasperated by the disease.


I think back to the flood of emotions I feel each time I do receive some sort of confirmation surrounding my experiences. The relief that I am not causing this; bits of my shame and guilt dissipate with each substantiation.


I am reminded of my mother, and all the ways that she has never doubted me or who I am at my core. Through every hardship I’ve experienced, she takes what I say at face value. She has always believed me, believed in me. Always there for me. She never lets me down, because she loves me wholly and entirely.


I am struck by this realization, as it means that there is a part of myself in which I. Do. Not. Love.


Because if I loved myself fully, accepted every piece of my heart, and every bit of my being, I would never invalidate and doubt myself in this way.


These thoughts shake me to my core. Not because it is so shocking that there are parts of myself that I do not like. But, because—in spite of my flaws… or maybe because of them—I have always maintained a certain level of confidence and self worth. Not with an air of superiority or arrogance, but rather with an assuredness that I wouldn’t be who I am without the failures and adversities that inevitably led to personal growth. And that growth resulted in a degree of resilience, boldness and tenacity that I am proud of.

Though this awareness doesn’t mean I’m not hard on myself, and constantly striving for close to perfection in all that I do, it does mean that I have grown to not sweat the small stuff quite as much as I used to. And I like that about myself, too.


I perpetuated a level of acceptance over my weaknesses, shortcomings and limitations throughout my life that never kept me from loving who I was. Until now.


And that is what I choose to work on as I lay here: getting back to loving myself. Wholly.


Not with a focus on what I have achieved, or even the ways I’ve grown.


Instead, zeroing in on acceptance—rather than abhorrence—of unexpected and unwanted change. Embracing the present with open arms. Letting go of versions of myself that no longer serve me. Not out of any sort of indignation, but with absolute respect for the woman I am now. Because I know that I cannot move forward in this self-love journey while pining over a retired version of myself.


This reflection makes me grateful for my ability to adapt to circumstances out of necessity, and to be able to modify behaviors out of sheer survival and self-protective instinct.


Love surrounds parts of me that I've not previously allowed such warmth to reach—working to shift my perspective of self with each internal embrace.

After all, a warrior adjusts their strategy depending on the battle they're fighting. And though my current adversary may be the strongest opponent I have come head to head with, I don’t have any plans of backing down; in fact, that's not even an option. 


Acceptance, here I come. Of self. Of mind. And, however aggravating, of body.


Who says rest can’t be productive?

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