Today marks 11 months since I started realizing I was not well.
I knew I had been unwell for a while - the exhaustion, the constant doctor visits, I knew something wasn’t…right. I couldn’t think, I felt like I was wrenching myself across a canyon, one atom at a time. I was gaining weight no matter how often I worked out, ran, or hiked. In February of last year, I had an answer - a chronic auto-immune disease responsible for the physical and some of the mental wellness - and one that was likely to get worse as I got older. But it wasn’t everything.
Even after, I still felt unwell to the point of anger or depression. I swung wildly internally and bit back each time I wanted to lash out just to feel something. I gave into things I shouldn’t - because that was what people expected to do in situations, even if I wanted to be say, no, I will not, I will be selfish, I don’t want to!
But I knew the day I wanted to just start hitting the walls at work to feel something, that something had to give.
I wasn’t well.
So I sat for two weeks thinking what could change, and I realized I needed space, I needed time, and I needed to become…well again. I hadn’t written, or drawn, or painted in years. My sewing machine hadn’t been touched since Alaska, and I couldn’t the remember I took physical or mental self-care seriously.
I finally reached a point I’m becoming more well now - I can see the areas in my life I’ve allowed to slip backwards. I was lucky enough in Florida to find a nurse that took me seriously - I seriously credit her with saving my life. I was lucky enough here to get a spot with a physician whose focus has been this disease. I’m not..Well. But I’m getting there.