I'm A Comeback Kid

It’s fair to say this past year has been one of the most hellacious of my life. 2016 seems to have sucked for everyone –– from losing some of Hollywood’s greatest legends to losing our goddamn minds at the polling place, this is the year that launched a thousand memes about the sheer garbage fire of it all.  

Behind probably only the year my parents got divorced, this year is number 2 worst ever. It could have it’s own trophy for shittiness. And it’s easy, when you’re having an unfortunate series of events, to not look on the bright side. When I’m doubled over in pain or trying to figure out how to pay exorbitant medical bills, people who talk about looking on bright sides make me want to punch them in the face. Hard.

But lately I’ve taken to being that person for myself, and as it were, it’s nearly physically impossible to punch yourself in the face. As I’m on a self-described “upswing” from my personal longest flare ever, it’s a little easier to find the bright sides. It’s easier to reflect now on the things the last year of garbage has brought me–– aside from painkillers and a geriatric bedtime.

This year has brought me new skills. I’ve gone from a girl who got dinner from her local taqueria several nights a week (and pizza rolls for the rest) to a girl who is currently multi-tasking–– writing while keeping an eye on my spinach tortellini soup. I taught myself how to cook. I joined a gym to fend off all the prednisone weight. I took up meditating to keep myself from going insane with all the time I spent in solitary, sick kid confinement. This year forced me to become an adult in ways I otherwise would have continued putting off for another decade.

This year brought back old loves. Not the literal, romantic kind because hey–– I spent most of this year chilling in pajamas and it hasn’t been super sexy. But as an English major and major book nerd, I spent the first 22 years of my life reading incessantly, before life and a full time job got in the way. Being sicker than usual brought me back to reading. I’ve read an impressive amount of books in the past year and have no intentions of slowing down anytime soon.

This year strengthened bonds. They say you find out who your friends are when times get tough, and that’s been abundantly true. I’ve solidified the fact that my “ride or dies” are actually down to be there for the dying in pain part. My best friends still want to be my best friends, even when I’m too sick to go out and be a very fun friend. I have rarely felt quite so loved as I have in the last 10 or so months.

This year taught me appreciation. I will never again view my body in the same way. I’m not saying I’m about to go train for a marathon anytime soon, but I’ve gained a new appreciation for the things I can do physically. My body is like the Little Engine That Could, working way harder than everyone else’s just to keep me functional. Since I now know what it’s like to have days (or months even) where walking up a flight of stairs is hard, I am now decidedly here to make the most of the good days–– which includes saying yes to things I never thought I would, like signing up for a ballet class, and climbing a rock wall, and planning my first trip alone abroad.

I like to think I’m still myself in all the essential, important ways. I’m just maybe a better, more grateful, better educated me. I’m never going to be one of those people running around talking about how I’m “grateful for my disease.” If I had 3 wishes with a genie right this second, wish number one would absofuckinglutely be that I wish I was healthy. But since genies seem to only exist in Disney movies, I’m accepting things and moving on, and trying to catch some bright sides along the way.

Books Are Uniquely Portable Magic

I love to read. Always have. When I was little, this meant some friendly teasing about the irony my last name from some kids who were too young to understand irony. As an adult, it’s meant an English degree and a shelf full of “to-reads” I can never quite catch up to before buying even more.

It always baffled me, in fact, that there were people out there who didn’t like to read. What was there to not like about picking up a book and being somewhere else for an hour? Whether it was escaping my own problems through someone else’s or feeling understood, there was nothing like a book.

As an adult, it’s gotten a little harder to find time to read for fun. In college I was constantly reading because I was an English major–– it’s kind of part of the territory–– but now as someone with a full time job, my books to-read were gathering dust on the shelf. I was hitting up the easy reads like memoirs, and doing so at a snail’s pace. And I didn’t feel like myself because of it.

Some favorite Christmas gift selections

Fast forward to early February–– I got sick, really sick, and fast. I went from dancing my face off on my 24th birthday to fainting from pain in the backseat Uber on my way home from work in 2 days flat. Since then, I’ve been in a pretty aggressive flare that has knocked my body (and more importantly, my social life) on its ass. These days, I don’t happy hour–– I try to stay awake through a work day and then have a happy hour with me, my couch, and no fewer than two heating pads.

So that all sounds no fun, right? Except I’ve been conditioned to be ever the optimist, so I was recently thinking about the good things this flare has brought me. I eat healthier. I prioritize my health more. I actually communicate with my doctors. I keep my mental health in check better than ever before. And most fun of all? I’m reading again.

Reading is a phenomenal hobby for anyone with chronic illness. It’s cheap (hey, libraries), it’s easy, and it’s a great way to entertain yourself. I live with a roommate, but a lot of times when I have to stay in on a Friday night thanks to my symptoms, it’s just me and my emotionally withholding cats. And there’s only so much Netflixing a person can feasibly do–– believe me. But books provide an outlet that’s unlike anything else, where I can completely forget about my own circumstances or whatever is bothering me and just engross myself in a good story.

This is my current favorite place to read–– the park across the street from my apartment.

Also, as a person with chronic illness, I spend a lot of time waiting. Waiting for prescriptions, waiting for doctors, waiting for infusions to be done. And I know that we all have the internet in the palm of our hands these days, and I’m as addicted to Twitter as the next girl. But I do think there’s something great about having a book waiting in your bag for moments like that. A good story never fails to calm me down when I’m waiting to get bloodwork done or tackle an annoying new CT scan. I would even go as far as saying “How To Build A Girl” made the barium I had to drink last month taste bearable. It’s true what they say about books being portable magic.

So in terms of silver linings to seemingly unfortunate situations like bad health, I’ll definitely take more time to read. As a smart teacher once told me, “we can only write in words we know.” Reading not only gives me an escape and a way to spend my sick time–– it makes me better able to express myself. And when you’re living life on intermittent bed rest, helping others understand becomes paramount.

So to books I say: thank you for being the most constant and reliable companion I’ve ever had.