Today officially marks seven years of illness. Seven years to the day when I got glandular fever aged 16 which caused the onset of all my ill health. Seven years of a constant, downhill slope in my health, slipping lower and lower each year. Seven years of endless *solo* research, study, and experimenting, trying to get better to no avail.
But you probably all know me too well by now to know I’d never let all that define these seven years because goodness knows how far I have come.
I can’t, however, turn it all around and say it’s also been seven years of a journey towards self-acceptance, peace, and happiness because that simply isn’t true. The first three and a half years were not good: a hella lot of resistance, tears, and endless struggle. But the past three and a half years? Yes, those have been a positive, healing journey. A long one, but a very, very good one.
It would be so easy to look back today and be sad about my non-existent recovery. But the thing is, I cannot control when I get better. So why should I judge myself or reflect upon these seven years based on something I have no control over? The simple answer is: I shouldn’t. So no, today I’m not going to feel sad about the fact I’m still ill because I have, and I am still doing, the absolute best I can, and that is something to be proud of.
Recovery will come for me one day, and when it does I can tell you I’ll be more than ready for it with open arms. But for now, I’m going to keep living the best life I can possibly live: no matter how small, sleepy, or horizontal it is.
So here’s to seven years.
Seven years of a long, transformative journey from resistance to acceptance, criticism to compassion, anger to love.
Here’s to a special shout out to my mama and papa, who have been through all of it with me. Love you team.
And here’s to finishing these seven years, lying in my bed, with an endless amount of hope, peace, and happiness in my heart. 💛