Tags
arthritis, autoimmune, chronic illness, chronic pain, flare-up, hydrocodone, medical, pain, Personal, recovery, sickness
I have dreams of being that girl. The girl who books a last-minute flight after one too many glasses of wine and never meets a stranger. The girl who gets out on the dance floor and does not care that she is off-beat. The girl who brings a flask as a plus-one to a wedding, spends as much time in the gym as she does eating cheese fries, tells all the best stories at brunch, and is more concerned with living her life than posting about it on Instagram.
I want to be free.
Unfortunately, my soul is currently trapped in a body that does not share those same values or abilities.
The last two years, I have battled a plethora of illnesses. Because of infections, autoimmune flare-ups, and diagnoses yet to be named, I live with pain and fatigue that I never expected to battle in my 20’s. The world keeps spinning faster and faster, and I am at a standstill, staring blankly at a mirror whose reflected vessel does not match the soul that is trapped inside.
For a while, this slower pace did not bother me. Distracted by a romantic relationship with a homebody, I was able to suppress my need for spontaneity with Netflix marathons, Sonic slushies, and homemade dinners for two. In those moments, my adventure was a person, not a place or a new experience.
Even after the breakup, my soul was somewhat content with a simple life. It had been almost two years since I was physically capable of little more than going through the motions, so as I slowly reintroduced old activities and travel into my life, the constant pain and planning felt more inconveniencing than detrimental. I no longer knew how to live my life any differently.
Then I had oral surgery in December and was given a hydrocodone prescription. Honestly, I probably only needed ibuprofen for my recovery, but the hydrocodone gave my aching bones and joints the relief I did not know that I was missing. For almost three weeks, I had a taste of what it was like to be that girl again. As long as I took that white pill every four hours, I could go up and down stairs, hang out with my friends for hours on end, and be that girl who danced like no one was watching. I felt invincible until I realized that I only had four pills remaining.
Weaning off hydrocodone and reintroducing myself to pain has been a mourning process. The soul of the girl who has always kept a bag packed “just in case” is now trapped in a body that cannot even blow-dry her hair without pain and tears. Although I yearn to be carefree, a night of spontaneity means three days of recovery. I long to turn strangers into new friends and flings, but how do I explain that I need to plan adventures around my medications and may have to cancel last-minute? How do I keep my love of travel alive when airport security, terminal changes, and minimal leg room on last-minute flights cause unbearable pain? Will I ever accept that a stranger’s comments about my weight, exercise regime, or diet do not change the fact that I really am doing my best to make it through each day? Will I ever feel like I have a right to mourn my old body, when I work with students who are battling far worse than I am but have twice the resilience?
I want to be that girl again, but my God, at what cost?