Before the wheelchair and the Prednisone, I could hide my illness in plain sight.  This is me right after a hospitalization.

Before I was in a wheelchair and now a walker, my illness was pretty invisible.  Though there are many downsides to invisible illness, one thing I did appreciate was that it gave me a choice of how much I wanted to share if anything about my illness.  If I wanted, I could mostly hide my symptoms, and no one had to know.  But my wheelchair became a physical sign of my illness and suddenly everyone, everywhere I went, instantly knew something was wrong.  And the big question that lingered in the air was “WHAT?”

I have always been a very open person.  Though like everyone I want to be accepted, I really don’t fear rejection.  Or at least I’d rather be rejected up front by someone I just met than a close friend far down the line.  So my policy about my illness has always been to share as much as the person I’m talking to in curious to know.  And the interesting thing has been that this has brought many blessings in itself.  When I share about my illness honestly and openly, I generally find that people respond with genuine empathy.

Sharing so openly has also given me the opportunity to help many people.  There are so many people out there going through similar experiences to me themselves or have a loved one or friend who is going through something similar.  I find that when I follow my intuition and share I find I’m speaking to someone who can benefit from what I have to say.

People are usually dying to ask me why I’m in a wheelchair or using a walker, but are afraid of being rude.  So I’ll steer the conversation that direction and put them out of their misery.  In this fashion, I often find myself sharing about my various illnesses with people I just met.  Sometimes I share the story of my physical illness and sometimes I share my struggle with mental illness.

Sometimes sharing doesn’t go very well.  Though most people are supportive and understanding, there will always be the ones who are judgmental or want to tell me what to do.  Either way I never regret sharing about my illnesses.

I find it’s important though that when I talk about myself, my illnesses aren’t the only thing I share about.  I am not my illness, and if I can communicate one thing that sticks with the person I am talking to I hope it is that people like me with chronic illness are so much more than the sum of their diagnoses.  I am also a women with hopes and dreams, talents and aspirations, fears and weaknesses.  I am human just like everyone else.  I am a graphic designer and a game designer and a novelist and a blogger and a scrapbooker.

I hope I never lose my desire to share fully and genuinely, and that I never forget to share the most important thing of all – what makes me who I am.

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Post tags: blessing, blog, blogger, Chronic, Chronic Illness, Conditions and Diseases, conversation, Disclosure, empathy, experiences, fashion, Fear, fear rejection, game, game designer, health, help, hope, hospital, hospitalization, illness, illnesses, intuition, invisible illness, many blessings, Mental disorder, mental health, Mental Illness, misery, novel, open person, opportunity, patient, physical illness, Prednisone, question, rejection, scrapbooker, share, sharing, story, struggle, symptom, understanding, walk, walker, wheelchair

Wouldn’t it be amazing if, during our darkest hour, we could reach under our bed and open up a box of hope?  A “box of hope” could be a figurative thing that we reach inside ourselves or out to God to find.  But sometimes you need something more.  Sometimes you need a literal box of hope.  And that is just what I created for myself during my darkest hour.

When I was 16 years old, during my senior year of high school, I was immersed in a deep and serious clinic depression.  My Obsessive Compulsive Disorder had just been diagnosed but was not yet under control.  I had constant intrusive thoughts of hurting myself – of ending my life.

Looking back I really had amazing self control on the whole.  But I could only handle so much.  The second time I caved in to the constant bombardment of intrusive images of self-harm, and I ended up cutting myself using razor blades my parents had forgotten to hide out in the garage.

Afterward I was on the phone with my therapist at the time.  She was telling me I was at a crossroads… that if I chose to continue down this path of cutting I would probably end up in a hospital.  I wasn’t really listening to what she was saying.  Instead, I was transfixed by what was sitting on the desk in front of me – the candlelighting piece my mom had made for my younger sister’s Bat Mitzvah.  She had glued this tiny shells all over the outside of it go with my sister’s tropical theme.  And it struck me then with incredible intensity how very beautiful those tiny shells were – how simply amazing it was that something SO tiny could be SO beautiful.  And if something that tiny in life could be that beautiful… well all of life was beautiful and precious as well.

I rushed to get off the phone with my therapist.  I knew that I had to find a way to hang onto this feeling.  I had stumbled upon my internal box of hope!  But I knew that it wouldn’t be easy to tap into again.  I had to find a way to make it physical while it was fresh in my mind.  I had to find a way to remind myself of this epiphany every day because I knew there would be many dark days ahead where I would desperately need to draw on my box of hope.

So I had my mom (who is good at crafty things) help me cover an old shoe box with some bright pretty wrapping paper.  I wanted my box of hope to be private and inconspicuous on the outside.  I didn’t tell her what it was for, but perhaps sensing my urgency she kindly helped me anyway.  Then I took the box upstairs to my room and set to work.

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Going through pictures and old magazines I decorated the inside of the box with things I wanted to do with my life, places I wanted to travel, people who cared about me, things that filled me with hope.  I hadn’t yet found out if I had gotten into USC Film School (a few months later I did), so I put a picture of a director’s chair with “USC Alumni” written on it.  I glued in some of the very shells that had led me to make the box to remind me of how beautiful life could be.

I put a picture of myself as a child to remind myself of happy memories of my childhood innocence.  I was obsessed with The X-Files and desperately wanted to know how it would all end, so I put a picture of that as well.

Most importantly I wrote in large purple letters:

I CHOOSE TO CONTINUE LIVING

I WILL GET THROUGH THIS

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Then it was time to fill the box.  Inside I placed a smiling drama mask to remind me of my love of theater and the creative arts since creativity had always sustained me during dark times and given me something to look forward to.

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I placed my childhood comfort animals – my blanky, kitty, and lamby – inside.  Though nubby and threadbare from a lifetime of being loved the went into the box to remind me to always feel safe.

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Next went the rug I wove myself while learning about Native Americans in elementary school.  I had always hated looking at it when I was younger because I hadn’t done it perfectly like my best friend Jennifer.  But over time I came to love it for it’s imperfections.  In the box, it reminded me that imperfection could be beautiful too!

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I put in a bracelet I made when I was 11.  All the beads were pretty by themselves but together well… it reminds me that you can have too much of a good thing.  But also to have fun and to have a sense of humor in all things.

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Second to last I put in a rope I tediously made myself during Outdoor Education in 5th grade.  I spent over an hour with my hands going numb in an icy cold river laboriously pounding all the moisture out of a reed before braiding it into a rope.  It reminds me of the power of hard work.  And the rope itself, which could hold my whole body weight, reminds me to always be strong.

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Finally I included a letter that saved my life one day.  I was home alone after school and feeling very suicidal.  I was searching for a knife to cut myself with.  Suddenly, I had a prompting to go check the mail before I got any further.  I almost never received any mail, but on that very day the following letter was there for me.

I cried when I read the letter.  It quite possibly saved my life that day.  I stopped looking for a knife and starting trying to figure out who could have sent it.  I didn’t think about hurting myself at all for the rest of that day.  The letter reminds me that I am loved even when I don’t realize it or it doesn’t feel that way, and that God is there working miracles in my life.

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I looked at my box of hope every day for about a year. It got me through a lot of very dark hours and days and months. Then there came a time when I could carry my box of hope around with me in my heart, and I didn’t need to look at it so often.

Now it mostly sits in my closet, but I always know it is there if I need it.  But today I was talking with a friend who is going through a very dark time in her life, and I told her about it.  I offered to send her photos of it, but, I thought, why not go a step farther and share it here?  Perhaps there is someone else who needed a little box of hope today.

Has anyone else made a box of hope or something similar?  Please share and post about it in the comments!

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I don’t really know what to write.  I’ve been kind of a writing funk.  More precisely the stress of everything it getting to me.  I’m in trouble financially, my doctors aren’t currently doing anything to help me get better, and I’ve been doing a lot of “being there” for my friends and family which I am more than happy to do – it’s just that its emotionally draining.

It’s so important to stay stress free when you have any chronic illness but especially one that’s autoimmune related.  High levels of stress lead to flareups of my illness.

Once upon a time I was a cutter.  Since then I have found other ways to de-stress that don’t involve hurting myself.  Now I have a little chocolate therapy on occasion (or rather frequently), I watch a favorite movie (usually The Princess Bride when I’m not feeling well), I talk to a friend or my sister about what’s bothering me, I scrapbook, or I force myself to write in this blog.  I’m feeling a little better already.

What do you do to de-stress when the road gets too bumpy?

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© Novel Patient for Novel Patient, 2010. | Permalink | 4 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: Add new tag, autoimmune, autoimmune diseases, Chronic Illness, Conditions and Diseases, disease, Doctors, faith, hard time, health, illness, illnesses, Management, mental health, Princess Bride, stress, Support Groups

Sometimes things come crashing down emotionally.  I didn’t realize what an emotional toll being so ill in the hospital with a double kidney infection had until yesterday.  I didn’t let myself feel it in the midst of the crisis.  I guess I was in survival mode.  Literally.

But yesterday gave me a chance to reflect on it.  I was at my regular monthly appointment with my psychiatrist (who I absolutely adore), and he was asking me the normal questions about my physical health as it affects my mental health and everything just sort of hit me.  And I started to cry.  All the stress I had been burrying so I could make it through the hosptial stay and infection and 10 days of at home IV antibiotics came bubbling up to the surface.  I didn’t shed many tears because my illness, Sjogren’s Syndrome, damages my tear production… among other things.  And that made me cry harder.

And then finally dealing with my immediate past made me think about my immediate and not so immediate future.  And I cried because the future is so unknown and that is just plain scary.  This round of IV immunospupressants – Rituxan – doesn’t seem to have worked.  That is enough to make me cry in itself.  It is just so disappointing.  I am unsure what I should do next?  Should I risk suppressing my immune system further and more potentially dangerous infections like the one I’m just recovering from and get another round?  Will it even work?  Should I try something even stronger?  Or should I not take the risk and learn to accept my life as it is.  Is my new “normal” getting around in a wheelchair and being in pain and exhausted all the time with dibilitating and life threatening symptoms?  Is that how I’m going to be forever?  If this is how I am at 25, what will my life be like at 50?  Will I ever be independent again?  Will I need a caregiver forever?  And the scariest of all… how long is forever if I continue to be this sick?  Will I die from my autoimmune diseases and not with it?

But after crying this out of my system I realized I need a “new look” on many levels.  I can’t LIVE my life if I’m thinking this way all the time, so I don’t.  But I did need to get it out of my system once and a while.  The rest of the time I am thankful for what I still do have.  I am usually happy.  I have a wonderful caregiver in whom I’ve found a great friend as well.  I have the most wonderful and supportive community of online friends a girl could ask for.  I have a sister who does everything she’s able to support me.  A dog who loves give me cuddle therapy.  My writing, creativity, faith in myself, and most importantly HOPE!

I also got myself a “new look” in a more literal sense.  A new haircut and a new outfit.

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© Novel Patient for Novel Patient, 2009. | Permalink | 4 comments | Add to del.icio.us
Post tags: antibiotics, autoimmune, autoimmune diseases, caregiver, dangerous infections, emotional toll, faith, health, hospital, illness, immune system, kidney infection, mental health, new haircut, pain, risk, sjogren, stress, survival mode, wheelchair