I have lost so many things because of this illness. I lost a job I could have loved, I lost a man I thought I could have loved forever, I lost part of my health, I lost some of my dreams, and I lost my innocence. I gained things, as well, but the last two years of my life will be remembered as years of loss and growth. I hate that those two often go together.
This week, I lost something because of who I am. My illness is partly to blame. I have become harsher, angrier, quicker to protect myself against perceived, potential, or future pain. My ability to survive pain and to face struggle without turning against myself is back, but I do not yet believe it. So I lash out. I'm quick to find offense in a textbook, a comment, or a man. This is my choice, not my illness', but I choose as I do because I endured what I did.
One of my best friends told me a few months ago that I have become harder as a result of this ordeal, that I've become harder to please and quicker to judge perceived weakness in others. I have also become meaner, my tongue sharper. I laugh less and hurt more. Sometimes immense pain is only bearable when you believe that you will come out the other end stronger, but I fear that I've gained all the strength I can without it looking ugly on me. Strength, bitterness, acceptance - what if they start to look ugly on me? What if I lose more precious things? Then this will all be for nothing, and that might be worse than the illness itself.
This week, I lost something because of who I am. My illness is partly to blame. I have become harsher, angrier, quicker to protect myself against perceived, potential, or future pain. My ability to survive pain and to face struggle without turning against myself is back, but I do not yet believe it. So I lash out. I'm quick to find offense in a textbook, a comment, or a man. This is my choice, not my illness', but I choose as I do because I endured what I did.
One of my best friends told me a few months ago that I have become harder as a result of this ordeal, that I've become harder to please and quicker to judge perceived weakness in others. I have also become meaner, my tongue sharper. I laugh less and hurt more. Sometimes immense pain is only bearable when you believe that you will come out the other end stronger, but I fear that I've gained all the strength I can without it looking ugly on me. Strength, bitterness, acceptance - what if they start to look ugly on me? What if I lose more precious things? Then this will all be for nothing, and that might be worse than the illness itself.
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