Today is my five year anniversary of being diagnosed with IBD. It’s also my 28th birthday. This is the order I remember them in.
I made it this far. With all of the health problems I’ve had in the past year, I joked more than once that I was going to join the 27 club. I probably wasn’t artistically gifted enough. In all seriousness, though, I almost didn’t make it past April. If I had gone to sleep instead of going to the hospital, I probably wouldn’t be here right now. I still don’t know how I feel about that.
It’s tough to have such a combination of events on the same day. Reminders of a beginning and an end. Your birthday says: Congratulations, you lived another year. But after diagnosis, always that reminder: you lived, but for what purpose? You’re here, but should you be?
I’m certainly not suggesting that chronically ill people have no purpose, or should not be here. Everyone has a purpose. I just haven’t found mine yet. Every time I think I’ve finally got it, I lose it again, washed away as quickly as if it was never there at all. And in turn, I was never there at all.
It’s strange to get older without anything to look forward to. Even stranger when you don’t know who you are anymore. I don’t know who I am anymore. Sometimes I feel that there is nothing on the inside, no personality, no soul. I think that’s part of why I get so upset by how I look on the outside. That’s all I am anymore, and it isn’t enough. I no longer recognize any aspect of myself. I no longer have hope that things will get better in this new year, because they can’t get worse. If chronic illness has taught me nothing else, it is that things can always get worse.
But, 28, I’m willing to be wrong.