I'm Not a Hypochondriac.

I’ve always been a sickly kid.

I had pneumonia 9 times before the age of ten. I grew up using a breathing machine every few months. When I was fourteen, my eyes were mysteriously crossed for three months, to the confoundment of every doctor I visited. For two years in high school I suffered from debilitating chronic migraines. I’ve had pretty much every test and procedure a human can have at this point, from EEGs to CTs to colonoscopies.

And when I was 17, I was diagnosed with Crohn’s.

My time as a professional sick kid started before I could walk or talk

When you’re sick all the time, people tend to want to find simpler explanations. And the simplest explanation of all, it seems, is that it’s all in your head. It’s a lot easier for people to stomach that you want attention, or are just a bit anxious and neurotic, than that a teenage girl is just legitimately ill, and often.

So because of that, and because it seems I’ve been sick with some odd illness or another since before I could talk, the hypochondriac comments have also been a hallmark of my existence. It doesn’t help that as an adult, I’ve also suffered from anxiety and panic disorder. If you’re mentally ill, it’s super easy for everyone from doctors to acquaintances to chock up your physical symptoms to something you’ve made up in your mind.

But here’s the thing–– being chronically ill sucks. It’s physically trying because hey, pain, but it’s also mentally trying for a number of unfun reasons. And one of the biggest reasons? Feeling like you have to prove to people how sick you really are.

When people reach for the hypochondriac thing, it makes patients feel like they have to prove themselves–– and believe me, they can. My illness is “invisible,” but I could show you blood panels that “prove” just how high the inflammation in my body is. Better yet, if I’m feeling particularly sassy, I can show you a picture of the inside of my colon. Because I have it on my phone.

Point being, you should never be making an ill person feel like they have to prove themselves to you. I know it sounds unbelievable that I’m flaring yet again, or that I’ve got another infection. But since I’m the one who has to deal with that physically, instead of opting for emotions like disbelief or skepticism, go for support. Honestly, the best thing a person could give most sick patients is unyielding support and belief.

And when you don’t believe someone who’s sick, you’re probably also making them doubt themselves, which can be bad for their health. Because I had grown up with bad internalized feelings surrounding feeling like a hypochondriac, it took way longer than it should have for me to be diagnosed with Crohn’s. I thought having stomach aches on a daily basis and not being able to eat was somehow a thing I had done to myself. That’s why, while my diagnosis was one of the hardest things I’ve ever dealt with, it was also a relief–– I wasn’t crazy. There was something actually, medically wrong.

While there are always going to be people out there who exaggerate their symptoms for attention or who genuinely are hypochondriacs, the number of those people is much smaller than the number of people actually suffering every single day from random diseases and weird aches and pains. So before you call me a hypochondriac, think about just being a kinder human instead. Unless of course you really want to see the inside of my colon, because we can make that happen, too.

Sisterhood of the Traveling Pajama Pants

A little under a year ago, I was going through the chronic illness thing alone. Aside from twice-yearly gastroenterologist visits where I got my magic pills refilled, I rarely talked about having Crohn’s. Hell, sometimes I even forgot I had it. It was a magical time where I dated and danced and drank and ate nachos like there was no tomorrow.

But right around last Thanksgiving that all started to change. My magic pills stopped working. I was (attempting) to live my best Los Angeles life when my symptoms took on new levels of life-sucking. And then I ended up in a hospital a few miles from the beach wondering how things got so far from the life I’d imagined so damn quickly.

It was a few months later that I began blogging about my experiences with chronic illness. As a writer who was too distracted by my symptoms to think of much else, it seemed like a natural creative outlet for me–– and a great way to avoid ranting my loved ones’ ears off.

In the months since, my symptoms have gotten better, and then way worse, and then better again, and then worse, and then–– you get the idea. Life is a weird roller coaster, my particular ride just happens to involve more pain meds than the average. But the blog part of this crazy ride of life has actually brought me something really beautiful: the online chronic illness community.

Unless you’re a sick kid yourself, you probably aren’t aware that #Crohns and #ChronicIllness are super popular, active hashtags on instagram. #ChronicLife will get you a constant stream of results on Twitter. Facebook is full of private support groups for people with pretty much any kind of illness you can imagine.

I spent the first several years of my disease feeling pretty alone in it–– I didn’t know anyone in real life who had it, and all the articles I read online were full of stuffy medical jargon. Finding the little corner of the internet devoted to real people with the same problems I have has been comforting. If I’m having a bad day, one visit to the #Spoonie hashtag will net me dozens of people to commiserate with. If I’m having a good day, I can spread the positivity and love the same way.

Infusion day selfies are a thing, who knew

So while my last post may be about how the internet is ruining us, I also believe the inverse: the internet has brought me some really nice people who know better than anyone else how much of a celebration it is to taper off of prednisone, or how bad it sucks on days you feel like you don’t own enough heating pads.

And in fact, blogging about my situation has also opened my eyes up to the fact that I was previously mistaken–– I know plenty of people in real life who are dealing with chronic illness. They’re just doing it pretty quietly, the way I used to. I’ve had old middle school classmates reach out, family friends, people I met once at a party. And the thing is, even though we may have nothing else in common, having this one huge thing makes all the difference. It bonds us in a weird sisterhood (or brotherhood, hey dudes) of people who “get it.”

So to my fellow chronic illness-havers, out there, keep on keepin’ on. Keep sharing your stories of how to make Humira shots less painful and what foods you make that don’t rile up your intestines and what exercises are easy on your joints. Keep sharing pictures of you on good days playing with your cute dogs or out for drinks with friends or binging Netflix because you want to, not because you don’t have the energy for anything else.

Thanks for the constant reminder that no one is ever as alone as they might feel, and that the roller coaster has as many ups as it does downs.

***

In a bit of shameless self-promo, the lovely people of the online chronic illness community nominated me for a health activism award. If you feel so inclined, you can vote for me here. Leonardo DiCaprio and cute kittens everywhere will thank you.

I Kind of Need You to Stop Asking if I'm "Better"

It’s rare, in this wacky journey that is my chronic-illness-having, that I openly express frustration. That’s mainly because I don’t think it’s all that productive, and I have had productivity beaten into me for all of my honors student life. I’d much rather spend my time talking and commiserating with other cool, chronically ill people, or educating friends and family on what it’s like to have a sickness that isn’t going away. But some days, the frustrated part wins. It wins hard.

The frustrated part comes out when my steroids are giving me insomnia, and I only slept three hours a night this week. The frustrated part comes out when my hair starts falling out every time I touch it. The frustrated part comes out when I realize my meds have given me a weird hand tremor and suddenly I feel way more like someone’s great aunt than like a 24 year-old.

But socially, the frustrated part comes out when someone asks the question I’m constantly dreading: are you feeling better?

The reason I dread this question so actively is because there are no answers to it that will make the people in my life happy–– which is something I desperately want to do. I would love to tell you that yes, in fact, I have miraculously come out of this flare and it will probably never happen again and, as it turns out, I am healthy as a horse. Turns out, though, that would be as honest as telling you that I just met Beyonce and she asked me to model her new athleisure line. Which is to say it’s a big old lie, or just a dream I had once.

I’m not a total pessimist. Some days I am feeling better! And in the moment you ask, I just might be. But the problem is, I’m living in a really long flare. And when this flare ends, I’m not sure how long I’ll have until my health turns on me again. That’s the nature of chronic illness: unpredictability. I have good days and bad days. Honestly, it changes down to the minute. Last week I called my mom in the morning to tell her I was feeling better than I had in weeks and I was ready to take life on–– and by 6 PM, I was in so much abdominal pain I was crying on my bedroom floor, popping Norco like it was a pill in Ibiza. (Am I using that pop culture reference right? I haven’t been out in a while.)

So when you ask if I’m feeling better, I feel obligated to tell you yes, because it’s understood that it’s what you want to hear. If you have a chronically ill person in your life, I’m not saying you should assume they feel like shit all the time and not ask at all. But there are ways to talk about illness that come off as genuinely curious and helpful that don’t make the person in question feel bad for not feeling better. Great things to say include “Hey, just checking in to see how you’re feeling. Thinking about you,” or “Can I come over and watch Unbreakable Kimmy Schmidt with you until we both melt into the couch cushions?” Showing you care and are trying to get it will go a million and one miles to getting someone to open up to you about how they really feel–– which might not be better, but will be important to hear.

"I'm totally fine, guys!" Or, On Being Chronically Ill But Also a People Pleaser.

I can be a real people pleaser, especially to people I don’t know very well.

Maybe it’s the way I was raised (as a child, my dad once threw up in his teacher’s car and then tried to hide it, as not to make any waves). Maybe it’s the overly hospitable Midwesterner in me. Maybe it’s that thing that seems sadly ingrained in a lot of women where we just never want to be *gasp!* a bother.

Whatever it is, I have a deep seated need to never make anyone uncomfortable. I will go to great lengths to keep this up–– I didn’t hear what you said? I’ll nod and smile and pretend I did! You want to buy me a drink but I think you’re a creep? I’ll probably let you and then just hope you go away! You want me to buy the weird teflon nail polish you’re currently selling through your aunt’s friend? Put me down for 16 bottles.

People pleasing runs in the family, as does a love of Mt. Vernon and wearing stripes.

In life, this just makes things occasionally awkward and weird for me. But in terms of my illness, it can actually cause some problems.

As it turns out, when a doctor or other medical professional asks how you’re doing, you’re supposed to actually tell them. Wacky, I know. The standard, “Oh I’m great, how are you doing?” is slightly less convincing from an emergency room stretcher. And being coy about your symptoms can really hurt you. If your doctors don’t know what’s wrong, or how much pain you’re actually in, it’s hard for them to treat you.

A standby response for me at gastroenterologist appointments for years was “mostly I feel normal.” Each time, their response was the same: my definition of normal is not the same as a healthy person’s definition of normal, and I could be doing better. But how do you redefine normal? Normal for me has been a steady homeostasis of stomach aches and discomfort. So how do I put myself in the shoes of a healthy person, and then describe what I feel from there? What’s it like to not be in at least middling amounts of pain every day?

Add on to those questions that I have been blessed with some pretty crippling social anxiety–– I’m constantly worried about what other people are thinking of me. If I’m having a bad pain day, and I tell you as much, is that going to be seen as dramatic or attention seeking? Everyone worries about what others think to some extent–– but I’m actively trying to take doctors out of that equation. If there’s one person with whom you should be being totally honest about your symptoms, it’s them. Your doctor is not someone you are trying to impress at a party, they’re there to gather information and help you feel better. (Unless, like me, one day you get a really attractive young GI fellow asking about your bowel habits. In that case you should giggle a lot and stop forming words, like I did.)

The moral of the story is, people pleasing isn’t all bad. Except when it puts your health in jeopardy. Or when it lands you at a really lame acquaintance’s baby shower because you don’t know how to say no.

Home Is Where The Heating Pad Is

Crohn’s disease, like any illness, isn’t just one thing.

Sometimes when commercials explain it, it just gets broken down to “something that fucks with your stomach.” While it absolutely does that, there’s a lot more to it. And among the super fun myriad of other symptoms, the one I want to talk about today is anxiety.

A lot of people tend to want to separate the physical and the mental when it comes to illness, but I tend to disagree. Diseases like Crohn’s or Colitis or any number of health issues are pretty much tailor-made to make you anxious. Think of it this way–– you need food to live. And on a less dramatic level, going out to eat with friends and family or attending dinners at other people’s homes is a pretty standard part of life. So if you have an illness that makes your eating situation more complicated, it’s easy for anxiety to accompany simple things like grabbing dinner with a friend or attending Easter brunch.

An over-priced candle ups the mood, ya know?

Additional anxieties can stem from less-than-fun GI symptoms as well. As someone with Crohn’s, I can’t exactly go on a random adventure hike with no destination–– always need to know where the nearest bathroom is. It’s not very glamorous, but it’s necessary.

The last major area in which chronic illness gives me anxiety is in other people’s perception of me and my disease. I never want anyone to think I’m being overly dramatic, or a hypochondriac, so I’m often hyper-accommodating even when it’s not best for my symptoms. If a friend wants to hang out and I’m too sick to, I may shuffle through and make it happen so I don’t feel guilty. Conversely, I may lie and come up with what I think is a more palatable excuse than “I’m too sick to go out today.”

All of this is to say that with a chronic illness, it’s easy to become a big ball of anxiety thanks to the littlest of everyday things. But then what do you do? Live your life like a bad Woody Allen movie? I’ll personally pass on that, as I’m not into dating my relatives. What I have found supremely helpful is finding and cultivating “safe spaces.”

Safe spaces can mean different things for different people. I am luckier than most because my workplace is one of my safe spaces. Part of that was inherent when I was hired–– I work for a very small internet company that has a pretty familial feel. I can wear leggings to work (great on bad pain days), and because of what I do for a living (web content), if I’m particularly ill I have the luxury of working from home. Also, because my office is small, I’m not just a number on a list of employees. My bosses and co-workers know about my medical problems and have always been wildly understanding.

I know I’m very lucky in this respect–– not everyone with a chronic illness has a workplace they’d deem “safe.” For economic reasons people have to take the jobs they can get, sometimes forcing them to work on their feet all day, making symptoms worse. In those cases, hopefully other safe spaces can be created to balance things out. Like the home!

I just moved into a new apartment, and I have quickly gone to work making it a safe, happy space for my Crohn’s. My room is a great safe haven after long days, with fluffy blankets and candles and a heating pad and Netflix and no fewer than two cats. My kitchen is also a safe place, because it’s where I make all the foods I know won’t hurt my body and exacerbate my symptoms. I’m nerdily obsessed with my new ninja blender. If work or school can’t be a safe haven for you, home is always a good place to create your own little bubble of happy. In the literal bubble sense, too–– go buy some bath bombs and relax your ass off.

Gettin' that college degree, y'all

If you’re still in school, I highly recommend being open with administrators and professors about your illness if you feel comfortable doing so. My university had an attendance policy that would have been nearly impossible to meet thanks to my Crohn’s, but after reaching out to our school’s disability services office, I was able to get special allowances from my professors to do work from home when necessary and even have separately proctored exams in case I couldn’t sit through one for a full hour. As a result, I went from struggling to graduating with a 4.0.

The moral of the story here is: anxiety blows, but it can blow considerably less if you’re open about your conditions and take the appropriate steps. Do what you can to make yourself feel happy and healthy in the places you spend the most time, and don’t be afraid to ask for help when you need it. People will surprise you with how wonderful and understanding they can be.

The Dangerous World of Comparative Thinking

All of us have faced adversity in our lives. Whether it’s the death of someone close to us, a battle with a disease, bullying, or anything else, we all know what it’s like on some level to go through something difficult.

The thing is, we’re all special snowflakes here, so the problems we face are different. And even if they’re really similar, they’re still different because we as human beings experience emotion differently. The way you cope with the death of a family member may be entirely different than the way your best friend does.

And when people are facing hardships, it’s hard to know what to say. But here’s one thing I would actively advise not saying to someone going through a tough time:

“It could be worse.”

It could be worse is my biggest pet peeve when it comes to attempting to “comfort” someone. Of course it could be worse! A bomb could drop and kill all of us except the cockroaches! Paris Hilton could decide to start releasing music again! It could always be worse! You might as well say “the sky is blue” for all the new profound light you’re shedding on the situation.

Which is why I firmly believe “it could be worse” is a lazy thing to say–– you’re not empathizing, you’re just making the person feel guiltier for the emotions they’re experiencing. That person might now think “Yeah, it could be worse. So why do I still feel so shitty?” This just leads to a whirlwind of guilt over how we should feel versus how we actually feel. See? Not helpful.

I’m also guilty of thinking “it could be worse” in my own mind when I’m having a tough pain day or life just feels like a bit too much. You think it might make you feel better to put your problems in perspective–– like, at least my life is probably better than Jeb Bush’s? But comparing the hardships in your life to someone else’s doesn’t make your chronic joint pain go away. It doesn’t make your financial troubles disappear. It doesn’t bring anyone back from the dead.

So maybe next time you’re thinking of your own problems in comparison to others, do what Joey from Full House would want you to do and cut it out. Berating yourself for your emotions because someone else out there has it worse is not only silly and counterproductive, it’s potentially just bad for your own mental health. Life is not the Olympics of Suffering, and you don’t get a medal for having the worst problems of all, so maybe just let your problems exist as they are and don’t try to categorize or rank them.

And when it comes to chronic illness, it’s okay to be mad. It’s okay to feel like it’s not fair. It’s okay to feel like your bad day is bad, even if someone else’s bad day is worse. Sometimes the most cathartic thing we can do for ourselves is feeling what we feel, when we feel it, without piling on the guilt. And if you really need to think about someone having it worse than you to help you feel better, remember that men with really long ponytails exist. It usually helps.

Invisibility Isn't All It's Cracked Up To Be

As a kid, I thought it would be awesome to be invisible.

Like any superpower, it had its theoretical perks. I could spy on my parents while they wrapped Christmas presents. I could sneak into R-rated movies. I could stay up past my bedtime and watch “Law & Order.”

As an adult, ironically, I have an invisible illness–– and the invisibility thing isn’t exactly what I thought it would be. “Invisible” refers to diseases and disabilities that can’t easily be seen or noticed from the outside. They’re illnesses that ravage your insides but leave you looking just “normal” enough for everyone else’s standards that it’s sometimes hard for people to believe you’re really sick.

Wearing hoop earrings to my infusion because you can be sick but still look fLy~*

I don’t have a walker to denote that I’m in ill health. I don’t have an oxygen tank, or a big scar. Some days the circles under my eyes may be a bit more pronounced, or my prednisone may be making my hands shake, but for the most part I look like your run-of-the-mill 24 year-old girl. For this I am blessed. I don’t need a walking aid, or something to help me breathe. I haven’t lost a worrisome amount of weight. But that’s where things get tricky–– because I am still sick, appearances be damned. And sometimes when you don’t look as sick as you are, people have higher expectations of what you can and can’t do.

Even though you can’t see it with your eyeballs, on a bad day, I may be too weak to carry some bags up to my apartment without becoming super winded. Standing for long periods of time may be difficult for me. My stomach may be in so much pain it’s hard to focus. But because you can’t physically see it, I tend to keep it under wraps as much as I can–– which sometimes means pushing myself to do too much because I want to feel as healthy as I look, and I’m bitter that I don’t.

The biggest problem in all of this is that it’s often hard for people to believe that patients with invisible illnesses are actually sick. It’s easy to be skeptical of something you can’t readily see, even if it is real (like GHOSTS, guys. Or aliens.) This leads to stress for the sick party. What if your work gets fed up that you, a seemingly healthy person, has to keep missing shifts because you’re sick or have yet another doctor’s appointment? What if a friend is upset that you missed out on an important event because of your illness when you look perfectly fine? What do you say to the acquaintance who drops the classic line “but you don’t look sick?”

Yesterday was a really bad pain day for me–– one of my safe foods backfired on me and I was feeling dehydrated, shaky, and in immense abdominal pain. Luckily when I got on the bus to go home, there were a few seats left, so I snagged one. Being able to sit on my commute home made a huge difference, helping me feel not quite so faint. But a middle-aged woman did heavily sigh when she saw me seated while others were standing. I understand where she’s coming from–– I look like a kid, aren’t I healthy enough to stand and let a 40-year-old woman take my seat? But the problem with those kind of assumptions is that they aren’t always true. You know what they say about assuming? It makes an ass of you and me. And my ass is the one that’s gonna go on that bus seat, lady.

So in honor of all those struggling on through the invisible illness game, try practicing some judgment-free empathy in your own life and hopefully, over time, that good karma will come back your way. If you see someone who you assume is healthy using a handicap spot or taking the last seat on the bus, don’t let your mind automatically go to a place of assumptions. If you have a coworker or friend who’s always flaking because of illness, try not to question their motives or look for “signs” that they’re really sick. “Sick people” come in all shapes, sizes, ages, and ability levels. They look just like you–– they just also happen to have a slightly overrated superpower.

I Go To Therapy. Is That Supposed to be a Secret?

Un-fun fact: a lot of people who suffer from chronic illness also struggle with depression and anxiety.

The actual numbers on it vary so I’m not going to throw any highly scientific stats at you, but suffice it to say, physical and mental illness often go hand in hand. Some people are already predisposed to chemical imbalances in the brain like anxiety and depression. For others, the stress of being diagnosed with and coping with an incurable illness is the trigger.

I’m somewhere in the middle of those two types of people. This is not my first therapy rodeo. I’ve gone on and off since I was a kid and my parents got divorced. I went in college when I developed panic disorder. I’ve started back up again going now to deal with the day-to-day garbage that being sick does to my brain.

And by “does to my brain,” I’m not talking about the physical. Crohn’s disease doesn’t actively rot my cerebellum or anything, but it is a lot easier to go down a hole of dark thoughts when you’re faced with a lifetime of meds, doctor visits, and expensive copays. So what’s a professional sick patient to do?

Day-to-day relaxation methods include coloring and sassy mugs.

Talk to someone! For some, it’s enough to just talk with friends and family about how they’re feeling from time to time. For others, an actual, trained therapist can do more to help. Thanks to my latest flare I found myself repeatedly thinking: this is so unfair. Why can’t I go out and get drinks and real food with my friends? Why can’t I plan a trip knowing I’ll be in good enough health to go? Why am I so tired from doing basic tasks like carrying groceries? Why do I have to spend so much disposable income on a CT scan for a disease that I didn’t ask for?

And when those thoughts come, I know it’s time to seek out the big guns. And that it’s also maybe time to start dating a radiology tech for free medical care, if I can swing that. There’s such a stigma to seeking mental health care in our world: people think it makes them weak, or that it implies some kind of defeat. I personally think taking charge of your mental health is one of the most important and brave things you can do. And the more we all talk about it, the more we normalize it and make it okay for others to seek out help when they need it. People aren’t meant to be islands–– it’s okay to need a little help sometimes. Or a lot of help.

And while friends and family are awesome, there are actual professionals out there who specialize in helping people deal with the repercussions of chronic illness. When it comes to physical illness, your body can really be affected by your mind. Crohn’s disease specifically can be made worse by stress, which is a pretty cruel and unusual never-ending cycle. So if you think about it, you can’t really effectively treat the body without also treating the mind.

Cat pillows are also great for my mental health.

One kink in this plan that I do have to address, though, is cost. The state of mental health care in the United States, at least, is pretty abysmal. People (ahem, insurance companies) don’t prioritize it the way they should, so care is often prohibitively expensive–– hard to deal with when you’re already stressed about paying your other medical bills. That being said, there are other (free or cheap) resources you can seek out to talk to someone. There are hotlines to call and support groups both online and at a number of hospitals and medical centers. If you’re a student, mental health care is often free on campus. Some really nice employers even offer assistance programs where you can get a certain number of counseling sessions for free!

So while a lot of people might feel uncertain or embarrassed talking about going to therapy, I don’t think it needs to be some big state secret where I make up an elaborate lie about how I’m going to Bingo every Thursday night. Just like my medication infusions, or my check ups, or my trips to get blood work, therapy is one of the many tools in my arsenal I have in the fight against chronic illness. And it’s a damn good one, if I do say so myself.

Restaurant Eating for the Dietarily Restricted

I hate the word foodie, because it brings to mind a really wealthy brunch addict who instagrams pictures of their kale salads and smells their wine before they drink it.

So I’ll just say that I love food.

And more than loving food itself, I love going out to eat. The whole process has always been fun for me–– choosing a great restaurant, eating awesome food with the right company. And living in a city like Chicago, I could pretty much try a new restaurant every weekend and still never make a dent in all there is to be eaten here.

I'm not immune to the brunch Instagram. I'm human.

So imagine my struggle with new dietary restrictions.

“Dietary restrictions” is a kind term for my current eating situation. To me, dietary restrictions means something simple that you could write on the RSVP card to a wedding: “I’m a vegetarian,” “I can’t eat gluten,” “I’m dairy free,” “I will be dining at the open bar.”

But with Crohn’s (and colitis, and a lot of other illnesses), dietary restrictions are a bit more complicated. Suffice it to say I can eat what my gut decides it can tolerate–– and it’s being pretty picky and changing its mind more than a college freshman deciding on a major. Lately it’s been mainly fish, bread, and potatoes that have been going over okay–– what I like to sacrilegiously call my Jesus diet.

So how do you explain that to friends? Or a restaurant? Or a well-meaning aunt who just wants to cook you dinner? This is where eating out of your own home gets tricky and, often, un-fun. You can’t exactly sit there and go over the entire ingredient list with your server, lest they think you’re on some sort of Gwyneth Paltrow-inspired fad diet and spit in your food for being an immense pain in their ass on a busy night.

Last weekend I went out for a girls night with some friends from college. For everyone else, the prospect of picking a restaurant was probably just a normal group text. But for me, I sat on Yelp for a good hour, trying to come up with bars to suggest that were fun, cheap, and had stuff I could eat. I found a place! And ended up being able to order with minimal special instructions and just enjoy my night (and my tuna) with friends. Planning ahead, while not always the most fun! and spontaneous! thing to do can really help you relax and have a good time while you’re there–– no one wants to spend dinner stressing about whether the thing you just ate is going to make you need to pop a painkiller.

I may even be a repeat offender!

I also make pretty much all of my meals (down to breakfast and snacks, too) ahead of time to make life easier. That way, if I’m headed to an event where I don’t know the menu, I can eat my meal-prepped dinner beforehand or stuff some safe snacks in my purse. I have a reputation for getting hangry, so ending up somewhere with no Crohn’s friendly options is not an option for me (and is not advised for the people around me–– sorry for being mean when I’m hungry, friends!)

Having to plan your food ahead doesn’t have to be all bad, either–– it can make you look like an awesome party guest! I went to a barbecue recently and BYO-salmon for the grill, plus I brought a potato salad. It was great because the potato salad guaranteed there was something there I could eat (see ya, hanger) and it’s also just thoughtful to bring a dish to share when invited to a party. So take that, Crohn’s–– while I may be losing my spontaneous ability to go grab late night poutine after some aggressive dancing to Britney Spears, I am gaining in adulting points. And Barefoot Contessa recipes–– holler at that tarragon potato salad, folks.

Make 'Em Laugh

Comedy has always been an integral part of my life. From the early days of staying up late to watch "Saturday Night Live" with my dad to high school nights spent doing weird bits with my best friends, I’ve always leaned toward the more sarcastic side of life.

Sometimes jokes are just for fun, but they’ve also always been a great coping mechanism for me. Some people might call it a crutch, but those people are just well-adjusted assholes who can’t be trusted. Whether it was a fight with a friend or my parent’s divorce, joking about it has always made the bad stuff feel a little bit more manageable. If you can take something that hurts you and use it to make other people laugh, you’re turning it into something kind of beautiful.

When it comes to chronic illness, arming myself with a good sense of humor has been the greatest tool in my arsenal. Don’t get me wrong–– I have bad days where I just want to sit and wallow about how shitty things might be at that particular moment, no jokes allowed. And conversely, there are people who deal with their illness with unending positivity about silver linings and how things could be worse. But on most days, I opt for a different approach: making a joke out of the seriousness. And with Crohn’s, it’s easy to do–– doctors have literally stuck a camera up my butt on multiple occasions. If that doesn’t lend itself to comedy, I don’t know what does.

Saying something gross to strangers

Disclaimer: this approach probably isn’t for everyone. Sometimes, joking about a serious illness can offend, which is totally fair. But there’s a really great quote from the movie “Garden State” said by Natalie Portman’s character, who suffers from epilepsy, and it’s always stuck with me:

“What do you do? You laugh. I’m not saying I don’t cry but in between I laugh and I realize how silly it is to take anything too seriously.”

I’ve always tried to take this same approach. Let yourself feel your feelings–– if what you need that day is a good cry, do it. It feels great sometimes. But if you feel the need to make light of something heavy, lean in to that feeling. It can be really cathartic.

I have been blessed with a group of wonderful weirdos that I have called my best friends since about the age of ten. Nothing is really off limits for us to joke about, which has made my Crohn’s experience so much lighter and easier to handle. I don’t have to worry about burdening them, or grossing them out, because they’re the first ones to crack a joke about my messed up colon. During this most recent flare, one of my best friends sent me toilet paper with Donald Trump’s face on it. Best “get well soon” gift ever.

My best friends. They are impossible to out-gross.

Being able to joke around with the people you love makes talking about your symptoms a lot less alienating. That’s why it’s important to set the tone with the people in your life. It’s hard to know what to say when someone tells you about their medical problems. Do you say you’re sorry? Do you say it’ll get better? Do you ask questions, or respect their privacy? It honestly all depends on the person, so it’s up to us (the sick persons involved) to lead the way. I like answering questions about my disease because it raises awareness, and I like joking about it because it helps me and others cope. So I always try to set that tone early, so people know it’s okay to ask, and that it’s okay to joke.

So when you see me making light of something like hand tremors or painsomnia, I promise I’m not just being a terrible human being, or feeling sorry for myself. I’m trying to come to terms with some no-fun stuff by making it fun in any way I can. I’m not looking for pity, or a reassuring platitude about how it gets better. I’m just looking for some understanding, and maybe some more friends who can get down with a poop joke.

Chronically Single: Dating While Sick

I am terrible at dating.

I think to be good at dating there needs to be a modicum of giving a damn involved, and that is something I just do not have. I don’t want to pretend to be interested in some Tinder dude’s improv show. I just don’t have the time or energy.

I’ve always been bad at dating. The peak of my allure was in the eighth grade, where I think I had a total of two “boyfriends” with whom I slow danced to Ashanti in a gym. From then on, though, I could never bring myself to devote much time and energy to attracting a dude. I preferred to spend said time planning elaborate pranks with my friends or making puffy paint shirts with Dumbledore on them. Yes, I have always been this cool and hip.

So in all fairness, my lame dating history pre-dates my Crohn’s diagnosis, and there’s a solid chance that even if I were in full physical health, I would still be hanging out with a romantic comedy and a pizza on a Friday night. But as it stands I do have Crohn’s, and the being chronically ill thing? Definitely makes the dating thing a bit harder.

I know there are plenty of people out there with chronic illnesses who are in awesome, happy relationships. Maybe those people were better at dating to begin with, like Fonzi or Gigi Hadid, and now they’re found their unicorn person who takes them to doctor’s appointments and binge watches House of Cards with them on bad pain days. Maybe they’ve found someone else with a chronic illness, who really “gets it” and doesn’t get salty if they have to miss out on plans due to a flare. Maybe they’re dating a medical professional who has seen way too much to be grossed out or put off by their less cute symptoms. To those people I say: thank you for existing, and giving me hope I won’t be single forever. Please set me up with your doctor friends.

But as a chronically single 24 year old girl with a random disease, the “date” situation can get a little prickly. Especially in times like now, where I’m in a pretty aggressive flare. Not being able to ingest alcohol means I can’t go out for drinks, killing a key way of meeting and mingling with the opposite sex. I also can’t eat most foods, leading your average guy to think I’m maybe just on some fad juice cleanse. I also worry often about disappointing someone–– even if we go for coffee and they like me, will they quickly grow tired of the fact that during periods of bad health, I’m usually in bed by 8:30?

It’s hard, because you just want to scream “I swear I’m fun and normal!” But generally speaking, dudes don’t respond well to being screamed at by strangers? Like I said, dating is hard.

Among my many healthy single friends, an excuse I often hear for not going out on dates is “I’m just too busy” or “I don’t have the time.” While some people will call these excuses a cop out, they’re often legitimate. I’m friends with some badass women who are in grad school, running organizations, and working their way up the ladder in really cool companies. If they don’t have an hour to go for drinks with a CrossFit instructor who wears sandals, I will grant them that.

And so in a different way, I also find it hard to prioritize the little time and energy I have into blind internet dates. When your symptoms mean you only have about three hours of solid energy a day that’s not devoted to being at work, you tend to want to use it for more productive things like going to your doctor’s appointments, or cooking, or seeing a friend. And if that means it takes me a bit longer to find my made-for-me unicorn person, I’ll just have to wait.

So I suppose what I’m saying is, I probably won’t be finding true love anytime soon, unless that love is found in line at Whole Foods while I’m buying a salmon and some V8. Which would be a great meet-cute, so maybe get on that, universe?