I think the worst part about being sick is the loss of dignity, the loss of self. Most things I suffer with are easily bearable and I often white knuckle my way through my episodes rather than bother with medications. I think sometimes that makes me look strong. Keeping up the outside fight keeps up a facade of strength, bravery, and resilience. I do a remarkable job of hiding the battles I lose, mostly for fear of being seen the same way I feel. Sick. Weak.
Aches and pains are quickly adaptable; our species has a talent for growing to withstand our conditions, and any rashes I may experience typically come in short spurts. Irritable bowels, as embarrassing as they are, can be solved with a dose of Imodium. Fatigue can be slept away. My physical battles are nothing outside of my ability to fight and often are not even let on to those around me. It is only the internal struggles that penetrate through my defenses and bring me crashing down every time.
It’s the smallest things, like not being able to keep up with the hustle and bustle of the world or sleeping through important events that encourage me to stay in bed and not even try to get up. There’s a unique feeling of weakness and incapability that comes with the lost abilities on days with heavy pain that make me want to give up entirely, and there are some days I glance in my mirror only to see a zombie staring back at me. The body I dress up and the face I paint for special occasions hide behind the purgatory holding me captive. Painted lips fade to dry, cracked skin. Bright eyes pale and deepen under exhaustion. My beloved figure bloats and contorts into an all too familiar hellscape.
There were times I feared I came off as vain and prideful of my body and my looks, and occasionally I still feel this way. For a while I was even learning the art of Belly Dancing because the way my body moved and danced was so mesmerizing and fun to watch and perform, but on some days that pride is sucked from me entirely. I slip out of my sweatpants and T-shirt and watch the grotesque figure in front of me feel its body, run hands over its scars, marks, and rashes, and wonder what happened to its beauty. I look away. The monster is too disgusting to watch, and I only return my gaze to the mirror once the monster has clothed itself again.
I went through an active phase where I was eating well, jogging, hiking, and camping any time the weather allowed. I owned my body and everything it did was on my command, but then it revolted. Sometimes it doesn’t allow me out of bed, sometimes it stiffens and creaks when I ask it to move, sometimes - most shameful of all - it doesn’t allow me to leave my bathroom, forcing out whatever nutrients I offer it like a toddler throwing a tantrum. As of late, my body seems to own me, rather than the other way around.
These things have varying effects on me. Sometimes it’s very strange, as you would expect to react similarly every time you get sick. There are times I get angry and vengeful, and times I become depressed and feel like giving up. Sometimes I am filled with spite and rage that I take out on my body or on those around me, pushing people away and then getting angry with them for leaving. I am a strong believer that one can grieve for not only those which they’ve lost, but that which they’ve lost. So occasionally I justify my adverse reactions by comparing them to stages of grief, grieving for my lost ableism much like one would grieve for a lost loved one.
Not all hope is lost, however, for I still have my good days alongside the bad, and thanks to these bad days, my days of health feel all the more lovely. I have my days in which all I want to do is stay inside and sleep, but I also have days with pep in my step where I go outside and run, I clean the house, I hang out with friends. Even in my darkest hours I know somewhere deep down that things are bound to look up. The world is always changing, I am always changing, and that is a beautiful combination with the potential to lead to healthier days, better medicine, and a stronger sense of self. My body owns itself now, but in time I will own it again. In time I will grow, I will heal, and I will get better. In time.

Not every story has a happy ending. Some stories were never meant to have one, and sometimes it’s up to us to write our own.
This is my happy ending.

I would wake up early. Birds would be singing and the sun would have just risen. I would slink out of bed and slip out of my pajamas and into a pair of shorts and a T-Shirt. I will run my hands over my body and feel skin that is smooth, clear, and free of wounds. Still, after all this time, I will marvel over myself in the mirror. Marvel over the way my skin catches the light and my body moves freely.
I will make a cup of coffee to start my morning and sit down in front of a bowl of cereal and a good book. Before I begin my breakfast, however, I open the small yellow bottles perched on my table and out would tumble a small handful of pills, different shapes, sizes, and colors. With a big gulp of coffee they would disappear down my throat. Sure, a medicine c***tail before breakfast won’t be my favorite part of the day, but it’s a tiny trade for health.
I would read my book and take my time on my cereal and coffee. Maybe I would go to college classes, maybe work, or maybe I will go nowhere. Maybe I will just sit in my living room, read, and listen to the birds outside. Later I will go for a run, I don’t know how long I will run but I will run. I will run and run and never be bothered by the activity. My legs will not beg me to stop, they will encourage me to continue. I will enjoy the sun on my face. The stickiness of sunscreen to avoid my sun rash will have not been a burden for so long I will have forgotten what it felt like.
I will come back home and take a shower and then maybe treat myself to a sweet snack. A milkshake perhaps? Or some fudge? Or brownies! I will gobble down my treat and maybe some lunch and pat my full (but not bloated) belly, reveling in the feeling of being well fed without being sick.
I will clean the house, I will water the plants, I will do whatever I damn well please, because the monkey on my back fell off long ago! The shadow that engulfed me has been enlightened, and the monster holding my soul has grown to a beautiful young woman. That woman will tell others about the blessings of a healthy life, and the strength of a sick one. She will tell her story to everyone who can hear it, paving a path of resilience, and behind her - following that path - will be those who have struggled, earning their way just as she had.
And perhaps one day I will have a child. They will be beautiful. They will laugh, they will yell, and they will cry. They will cry at sad movies, lost pets, and one day they may even cry over aching joints and upset bellies. They will hurt but never suffer, because they will have a mother by their side every step of the way taking that pain from them in any way she can.
Today I have hurt, today I have cried, today I have told my story. I am familiar with who I am. At one time I hated her with all my heart, and now I love her for who she is.