Starting Out

So. This is supposedly cathartic. I guess it could be similar to therapy, but I never really thought about blogging. Sending personal information into space wasn't appealing. It still isn't, but there are multiple things that spurred me to begin this. First of all, my thoughts get jumbled in my head, I hate burdening people with them, but my fingers itch to put my thoughts into words. Second, I can write a mean email when I really get on a rant, but the people who receive them don't really count themselves lucky - just on the receiving end of a crazy person's rant.

I've had a rash of bad luck this last year. And not just the regular bad luck where you step in dog shit, but truly bad luck. I'm such a believer in karma that I'm pretty sure that someone out there has had the best year of their life, or I was an axe murderer in my last life. Anyway, my bad luck actually started years ago. I began to wake up in the middle of the night with knee pains. My parents didn't think I was making it up, they just figured there might be some exaggeration going on. I went through high school with the pain, thinking it was relatively normal and everyone else had it too, I was just this big baby. Going to college, I was sick for about two months without explanation my freshman year. From there, symptoms got progressively worse and more aggressive. Instead of just my knees, my lower back to my ankles became inflamed. Headaches began to get worse and I thought I was going crazy. I jumped in and out of therapy, physical therapy and specialist's offices who all came to the same conclusion - I was just making shit up.

One thing you should know about me is that my sanity lies in my ability to distract myself. I ended college with two majors and close to six minors because I just kept going to class. I'm one of those nerds that really just loves to learn. Anyway, I moved to Portland last June. My symptoms got worse to the point that I couldn't get out of bed and my legs just wouldn't hold my weight, which has never been substantial. I've always understood why some people's mind snaps when pain gets too bad... I've been way to close before. My head would pound to the point that I couldn't stand to be around anyone or do anything. And all you're left to do is sit and ruminate on the pain. I've had broken bones before (a result of being a huge klutz) but I would take a broken bone to the endless pain. I walk everywhere, not because I particularly enjoy not having a license, but a small part of me wonders how much longer I'll be able to do that.

I went in for an MRI last August, which found a small pituitary tumor. After being poked and prodded for three months solid, my doctors came up empty handed on what would actually cause the symptoms I was experiencing. The only progress I made was that they admitted that something was wrong with me - they just didn't know what. I about gave up hope when my mother (god love her) was gossiping about my problems with a coworker and discovered that my symptoms and those of her coworker's daughter's were eeirly alike. Her daughter's recent diagnosis? Lyme Disease. Mom calls and tells me about this and I start to look into it. The list of symptoms sound familiar, but I live on the West Coast of the US, which means that no doctor really knows about Lyme. Despite this, the diagnosis was made. I now get to go to Seattle every month or so just to see a damn doctor.

By Christmas my list was up to late stage Lyme and a tumor that just sits there. Mom and Dad call it Mr. Lumpy. I began the long term (2 year) intense antibiotic treatment in January. Lucky me, it makes me nauseous. So on top of being in pain, having headaches, and extreme fatigue, I now have nausea to contend with. Which, honestly, was another great distraction. Puking has a way of taking your mind off everything else. I figured this would be enough to contend with, but apparently the forces that be thought to throw something else in the mix. Last Wednesday, I 'woke up' on my couch to find I couldn't remember the last hour. I couldn't see straight to save my life and felt like I was a drunken sailor wearing 3-D glasses without the movie. Everything was turning to the left (I wonder if that says something about me). I couldn't hear, and couldn't speak. I don't remember opening my email, but slowly began to realize that I wasn't make any sense. My writing was sort of like a dyslexic third grader who was just learning English. I kept writing that something was wrong with me. I hadn't taken any medication that would have caused it (and I have my fair share of those) so I stumbled to bed and that's the last I remember of Wednesday night. I emerged Thursday feeling completely exhausted, but thinking the whole night before had been a dream. It wasn't until I read that damn email that I realized something had gone very wrong. I spent the majority of my Friday night in the ER (a great place to people watch, FYI) and discovered that I had had a seizure. What scares me is that I was completely alone, and didn't remember it for two days. Could someone have just found me in my apartment?

Life has taken some strange turns lately. I enjoy writing, but hate telling people about this side of me. It's a weakness. I've never blamed anyone for my being ill, not doctors, not parents, not even the damn sixth grade teacher that decided to squish the tick instead of pull it out. It's my weakness, and mine alone. I've never called anyone when I'm having a particularly bad episode and I can't move. I've never told anyone that I lay on the floor and just sob, the pain is so intense. But I've discovered that it eats at you. So, even though I hate asking for help, I'm asking now. I need to be able to share this, to realize that while my body is failing me, it is not something I've done. Logically, I know this. Emotionally... well, it's hard to remember sometimes. I try to keep a positive attitude, and in public, I laugh instead of cry. At home, curled in bed with a bear that's older than me, there's no one to smile for. Just the mirror. And the eyes in the mirror stare back out at me, helpless to mask the pain and fatigue.

I've come face to face with my own mortality lately. I'm not scared of it, just nervous about losing my independence. I hate having to depend on someone else for my own well being, even if it's just my parents. I love them dearly, but the ultimate failure in this fight would be to go home. If treatment doesn't work... well, the bacteria will slowly continue to take over my body. I imagine it as little green monsters attacking my blood cells. The same green monsters that pop out of my closet in the middle of the night after I take a sleeping pill. Maybe this says something - that I see the disease as a living organism that is after me.

Now, I write this not for pity, but to try and cleanse myself of the depression. Talking about it always helps, and I appreciate honest feedback. I hate pity, I don't want it, but I love understanding. Something to know about me is that I love passionately, but enjoy being alone. Not to wallow, just hide. I hate to think of those I love being burdened with my problems. This blog developed out of the helpless feeling after the seizure and an article that headlined MSNBC this morning: http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/30725967/. I wouldn't wish this on anybody, but a small part of me knows I'm not alone.

So here I go, this is my story. I hope it doesn't freak you out or make you treat me differently. :)