Anger is a Productive Emotion and You're Allowed to Feel It.

Anger is a productive emotion and you’re allowed to feel it.

If I could, I would stitch that on a pillow and give it to everyone I know. I would also put said pillows in every room of my house.

That’s how important a reminder I think it is. I’m a big believer in letting yourself feel your emotions–– acknowledging when life is great and you’re happy, letting yourself wallow for a few hours if you need to when you’re sad. But anger is a tougher emotion for me. It’s not as palatable to the general public, so sometimes I stray from it and pretend not to feel it.

I have the opposite of “resting bitch face.” This is to say that even if I’m in a terrible mood, you’d probably never know, because the face I’m showing the world is at best, happy, and at worst, neutral. Never angry. Never upset. Never impatient. Never an emotion that might inconvenience.

So what happens when you have every reason and right to be angry? There’s such a push for positivity, which I think is great. Positivity gets me through 99% of my days. But what about the other 1%? The days where you wake up and your symptoms are so bad you can’t get out of bed? The days where your steroid-induced tremors cause you to drop a cupcake in your own lap at a family party? The days when it feels like life is one step forward and five steps back?

Do you push yourself to look on the bright side and be more positive? I’ve tried that, but in my experience trying to force yourself to feel feelings that aren’t authentic to you at the moment will generally just make you feel worse. So I’m trying something new. I’m giving myself permission to just be angry.

I’m giving myself permission to vent, whether it’s to my best friends or my mom or my journal (or this blog). I’m giving myself permission to eat a really big piece of cake and listen to “Don’t Hurt Yourself” on repeat and channel my inner-scorned-Beyonce. I’m giving myself permission to lean into the anger and truly feel it. Because when you’re young and sick and feel like you’re missing out on real life, you’ve got some stuff to be angry about. I don’t carry it around on a daily basis and let it define me, but on the particularly bad days when anger rears its ugly head, I no longer try to force it back down into a neat little box. I let it out, and it feels good.

So if you’re angry at the world on a given day–– because you haven’t gotten the promotion you deserve, or because you’re feeling underappreciated in your relationship, or because a sexual predator just won the presidency and you can’t even win a freaking sweepstakes–– really feel it. And use that anger to fuel something else, whether it’s a creative pursuit, or a foray into political advocacy, or just a really great shower sing-a-long to Alanis Morissette (the ultimate “angry and not sorry about it” woman of our time). Anger, when harnessed correctly, can make us powerful little storms, as long as we know how to control it without letting it control us. So be happy, be sad, be mad–– be whatever it is you are today, and know that it’s okay.

Can I Live?

The internet is ruining us.

The internet is my lifelong bad boyfriend. I love it, and crave it’s approval, and at this point, it literally pays the bills. 99% of the time, I think the internet is the fucking best–– especially when it gives me cat gifs or videos of porcupines eating corn on the cob.

But as with almost all great things, there’s a downside. When you have access to everyone’s thoughts and opinions, you have access to everyone’s thoughts and opinions. And sometimes, those opinions suck.

Take random internet opinions (like mine) with a grain or 50 of salt.

Back yonder when people still actually had to show up to plans they made because they couldn’t bail via text, the only opinions on our choices that really mattered to us were those of like, our family, our good friends, and our dogs. But now, thanks to the inconceivably massive reach of the internet, opinions are flying at us from all directions, all the time. People who think we should all be gluten free versus people who think gluten allergies are made up. People who think breastfeeding is the only surefire way to make sure your child doesn’t grow up to be a serial killer. People who think Scott Baio deserves a shot at political commentating.

The thing about all the people behind screens with their opinions is that they don’t know you. Or even if they do–– even if they’re the pastor’s wife at your church or your best friend’s new girlfriend–– they don’t necessarily know what’s best for you. We choose who to confide in, who to ask for advice, for a reason. We pick our best friends because we trust them, and we know they know us better than anyone else. I know which one to go to when I need a sympathetic ear. I know which one to go to when I have an ill-advised crush. I know which one to go to when I need someone to pull me back to reality. And none of those people are bloggers or twitter personalities or talk show hosts.

When you’re chronically ill, you’re bound to come across just about every opinion possible on how you should be living your life–– not only socially and politically, but also health-wise, which at best is annoying and at its worst can be dangerous. You’ll have people blogging about how yoga cured them, or trying to sell you a diet plan, or worshipping at the altar of essential oils. You’ll have friends of friends sending you articles about “cures” and randoms implying that you brought your disease on yourself by eating too many carbs or spending too much time watching TV as a kid. The thing about these opinions is that for pretty much any opinion that exists on the internet, the inverse of it exists as well. So maybe put down the Google and just talk to your doctor and some fellow patients and friends that you really trust.

I trust this one's opinion because she's known me for as long as I've been alive.

So next time you’re on the other side of things and tempted to take a hard stance on something and make a sweeping judgement, bite your tongue–– both so you shut up and so you start having a Pavlovian response between being judgey and being in serious mouth pain. If you hear someone talking about how they plan to adopt, remember that you don’t know the ins and outs of their situation and refrain from yelling “BUT YOU’RE MISSING OUT ON REAL MOTHERHOOD,” like a giant douche. If someone tells you they send their kids to park district pre-school, don’t launch into a lecture about how kids need to learn Portuguese by age four. If someone tells you they don’t eat meat, maybe just live and let live and don’t talk about how great the lamb you had last night tasted.

Moral of the story here is try not to be a dick, let people live their lives, and if you need a break from internet opinions, turn your phone off and play with your cats until you forget your step-grandma’s judgey, Trump-supporting Facebook account exists.

C’est la vie, yo.

I'm Bad At Keeping Secrets

I’m not someone who has many secrets–– clearly, considering my social media footprint is as big as a continent.

But I do have a few, like the level of embarrassing songs I sing while cleaning my house, or the 90’s celebrities I still occasionally have dreams about marrying. My biggest secret as of late? I’m feeling better.

You’re probably asking yourself why the hell that would be a secret. After 8+ months of Saturday nights in, a monumentally bloated face, and a diet more restrictive than Beyonce-inspired veganism, wouldn’t I want to shout “I’M FEELING BETTER” from the rooftops?

Other things that will make you feel better: new lipstick, dramatic hair changes.

Yes and no. I’m thrilled to be feeling better. I’m thrilled to be weaned off prednisone. But what most normal-health-functioning people don’t realize is that for the chronically ill, “better” is a spectrum. I don’t go from sick to well in a day flat. When I say “I’m feeling better,” it simply means that currently, I’m having more good days than bad days, which is something to celebrate.

But if I take that celebration public, I’m nervous about the response. I’m nervous that people will assume “better” means I’m back to my vodka drinking, burger eating, dancing-til-the-bars-close self (and believe me–– I wish that were the case. That girl was fucking fun.) I’m worried if they get it in their heads that I’m “better,” they’ll assume all the bad days are behind me. They’ll expect too much, and they’ll be disappointed.

So I guess I’m outing my secret right now–– I’m feeling better. My hair stopped falling out. I’ve started to drop some of the weight prednisone packed on me. I’m getting more sleep. I can occasionally eat candy and chips and not worry my intestines are gonna fall out of my butt as a result.

On the flip side, the fatigue still lingers like a bad ex-boyfriend who won’t stop texting me. I still go to bed at around eight most nights. I still take ten pills a day, on average. I still have to stick to a diet of mostly bland foods like fish, bread, and eggs. I’m still dying for a cheeseburger and a big ass sangria.

Feeling good enough to spend the day with my best friends and their moms a few weeks back

So maybe instead of saying I’m better, I’ll just say I’m on an upswing. I can finally see the light at the end of the tunnel that’s been this flare. I know now that an autoimmune disease isn’t something you can just ignore and hope it goes away–– it’s part of my life, and I’ll always be at risk of another life-altering health situation. But I’m choosing to be cautiously optimistic about the parts of me that are feeling better. And I’m choosing, based on writing this, to stop keeping it a secret.

So HEY GUYS, I’M FEELING BETTER. Let’s just celebrate the news at like, 5 PM so I can still be in bed by 8.

The Economics of Illness

Being sick is expensive. Being chronically sick is extra expensive, because it never ends.

Among the many parts of being sick that I often think about when I’m thinking “damn, this is unfair,” that’s honestly what I think about the most. Being sick is exorbitantly, life-ruining-ly expensive.

There’s the typical costs that everyone probably associates with an illness–– hospital visits, fancy new medications, procedures and CT scans. Thanks to insurance (LITERALLY thanks, Obama) these costs are seriously lowered, but “lowered” from their crazy high initial costs still comes out to “too much money for a 24 year old with student loan debt.” I think that’s the technical total on my last hospital bill.

Those are what we call the direct costs. It’s estimated that the average patient with Crohn’s pays about $18,000 per year in direct costs. Basically, if I didn’t have Crohn’s I could take the money I saved and buy a brand new Volkswagon Jetta every year for the rest of my life. I would love a goddamn Jetta.

Hospital visits ain't cheap, but they are incredibly stylish.

But that’s just direct costs–– this doesn’t include the many other things the chronically ill drop cash on. Here’s a quick rundown of (usually expensive) alternative treatments and things that help ease the pain: essential oils, epsom salts, icy hot patches and creams, heating pads, special health foods, supplements, acupuncture treatments, therapy, etc. Every human with an Instagram these days seems to be trying to sell me a protein shake or a cookbook that will cure me. But the thing is, a lot of times when you’re sick, you’ll try anything that just might make you feel better. And that keeps racking up your costs.

At the end of the day, sick people are dropping fatty cash trying to get to the minimum level of functioning at healthy people wake up with every day.

I plan for my future knowing that while my peers will be making car payments and whittling down their student loans, I’ll be doing all of those things plus trying to pay to keep my Crohn’s at bay. Chronic illness is like having a really shitty extra monthly utility bill that you didn’t ask for, but instead of giving you A/C, it keeps you alive. That’s one of the reasons I’m a politically active person–– it’s easy to think that things like health insurance don’t matter all that much until you’re the one who needs help. It’s easy to think your vote doesn’t matter when you’re healthy, but for people like me, laws like those that make it illegal for companies to discriminate against pre-existing conditions are of phenomenal importance.

Without health insurance, the liquid gold they pump into my veins every 8 weeks costs a cool $20k

If I don’t have insurance, I can’t get my medication. If I can’t get my medication, my body stops tolerating food. If I can’t eat, I can’t live and work and be a functioning member of society.

So when it comes down to it, it’s not just impersonal dollars and cents and figures presented in pretty charts on MSNBC. It’s people like me, working and saving and buying kombucha.

Life is Gross and Then You Die

I watch a lot of romantic comedies.

If Hugh Grant is in it, I’ve seen it. If it involves a funny but sweet montage, I’ve seen it six times. I’m looking forward to the release of Bridget Jones’s Baby the way adult fanboys look forward to the release of a new Star Wars film (which, coincidentally, I am also looking forward to. I can have layers, okay?)

That being said, I’ve seen a lot of (fictional) romances unfold. And I can tell you this–– at no point during the funny but sweet montage does the girl bowl over with a stomach ache. At no point while Colin Firth is eventually professing his undying love does Rene Zellweger have to pause their love story for a poorly timed emergency trip to the bathroom. When Harry and Sally are driving cross-country, they don’t have to make two dozen stops at questionable gas station bathrooms. Anne Hathaway doesn’t keep a travel Pepto Bismol in her purse.

So it’s come as an unpleasant surprise at age 24 to learn that I am not the star of my own romantic comedy. I’m just Sam.

And just Sam has Crohn’s disease, a chronic illness whose main side effects are a lot of gross things that you don’t mention in polite conversation. Chronic illness in general can be isolating, but you know what’s extra isolating? Talking about poop.

Everybody poops. Especially Max. 

I agree with the commercials and campaigns that say “Crohn’s is more than just a bathroom disease.” It is! It’s way more! It’s a host of other things, like extreme abdominal pain like you’ve never felt before, and anemia, and skin rashes, and arthritis, and eye problems, and a lot of other unpleasant things. But it’s also a bathroom thing, day in and day out, and I would be remiss to run a blog about Crohn’s disease and be afraid to talk about shit like this. The literal kind of shit.

So, at the risk of jeopardizing my chances of ever becoming a romantic comedy heroine, here’s the sitch: everybody poops. Even Beyonce, and heads of state. Even the super hot girl who works at your gym. Even your fancy aunt who doesn’t let people eat in the living room. People with Crohn’s happen to do it a lot. So much so, in fact, that I think if you can’t talk about and joke about it, you’d go insane. And since you’re already going to the bathroom like a dozen times a day, you don’t also have time to deal with being institutionalized.

All within the past year, I have done the following: collected my own poop, stored it IN MY FRIDGE next to my Kombucha, and then delivered it to the hospital to be examined. I have drank a gallon of liquid laxative and then had a camera shoved up my ass. I have started bleeding out my ass and then, because I lack tact, referred to it in conversation as my butt period. I have come dangerously close to shitting myself on pretty much every form of public transit in Chicago, and a few in other cities. I have had hemorrhoids. I have had the adult version of diaper rash. I have become intimately familiar with where you can find unlocked public bathrooms.

I’m lucky, because my best friends are disgusting human beings. They can talk about shit all day. They love to be gross. I recently had a cyst burst and they spent an undue amount of time asking me about it’s contents. The universe sent me the perfect human beings to be in my life if I was going to be living as the human iteration of the poop emoji. They never ask questions when we’re on a road trip and I need to pull over. Those are friends you need.

My body does a whole variety of fun and unspeakable things on a pretty much weekly basis. It gets seriously discouraging–– becoming afraid to eat because everything you eat makes you violently ill is not a good look, and it’s a situation I’m in regularly. It also gets seriously dangerous–– dehydration is no joke, folks. But it also gets seriously more manageable if you can joke about it. As with most bad things in life, if you can find a way to laugh at it, you win.

So I’m a little nervous to post this blog, because I’m still secretly hoping Zac Efron is going to come sweep me off my feet, and I’m not sure he (or any guy) is going to be interested in a girl who has told the whole internet about how much toilet paper she goes through. But I’m holding out hope that one day I will be the subject of my own rom com, and the dude won’t care if I have to pause our passionate kiss backed by a romantic overture because my stomach is rumbling in that dangerous way.

I feel like maybe Hugh Grant would understand.