Who I once was.

Heya Everyone, so some of you know that last September I collapsed at work, within two months I had been diagnosed with a chronic illness, that, in all honesty, has made my life so much harder in these last few months, and really, I need to rant, so I’m forgoing the normal short little stories that dominate my blog for this. It’s also a sort of promise to myself, and hopefully a sense of strength for those that read it.

I’ll see you all next week for another short story.

Rose.

This time last year I had just finished mid-semester break. I was sitting in another lecture, listening eagerly, taking notes and learning all I could, stealing glances at my phone to make sure I snuck out in time to catch the last plane home. A post about a Siren’s song colouring the pages of my blog.

This time last year I was working the hardest I have ever worked, but it all passed in a daze. I was more than happy to work full time while I studied. I finally had a dream, a goal, a future in mind that I knew I could reach. I had reached a point where what he did to me no longer bothered me, it didn’t hold me back. I liked who I was, the people I surrounded myself with are those I was honoured to have by my side. They encouraged me, put up with the weird things I did and said, helped me when I got stuck or was stressing over the latest assignment or class topic.

This time last year writing was a passion, not a chore, and every spare moment I could steal was filled with worlds as big as I could dream and characters who dominated the story, twisting and turning the words I wrote as they saw fit. I couldn’t stop myself, downtime at work meant half typed ideas in a cellphone document, small pages of notes, backs of receipts filled with tiny scribbled words shoved into a pocket as a customer appeared. The excuse of uni work falling from my lips even if this was just for fun. An idea I couldn’t contain even if I tried.

This time last year I felt like I was finally making progress. The idea of dating wasn’t this huge, scary unattainable thing, in fact, for the first time in four years it sounded like something I could do. I was finally over him, the mess he left me in was forgotten, I didn’t hate who I was. I had rebuilt myself and my heart to a point where I was willing to give it away again, should I find the right person.

Then September hit. Everything changed. I nearly collapsed at work, called my mother to come get me because I couldn’t stand, let alone drive home. I never went back, a week off work sick turned into two, then into months, until I walked in and handed in a notice of resignation. I was too sick to go back, and it was unfair to keep giving them doctors notes saying I was still too sick to work.

Nothing I've tried made me feel any better. Lights are still too bright, noises too loud. I have been diagnosed with Chronic Fatigue, I’m always tired, but insomnia prevents me from sleeping. I take medicine to give me a quarter of the control over my emotions that I had before. To stop me from breaking down at the smallest of inconveniences. To let me find the sweet release of sleep, knowing that I won’t feel any more refreshed when morning hits. That my head will still feel so heavy that I can’t hold it up, that the effort of moving, of doing the things that used to bring me pleasure will only make me feel worse.

The stories that dominated my mind, that distracted me and gave me life, are gone. It’s a struggle to sit before a computer and write words that flowed so naturally to me only a few months ago. Something I couldn’t stop doing is now the thing I struggle with most. The life I dreamed of seems so far away now. All the work I did to set myself on the right path seems to have shoved me off, dropping me into a pit that I can’t find the energy to claw my way out of.

I’ve clung onto this blog with all I have, refusing to let go of it. It’s the last thing I have left of last year. All I was working on and working towards has crumbled to the ground around me, and I’m too sore, too tired, to pick it all back up and start piecing it all back together.

What’s worse is I know I should. I know it’s my fault that I’ve let it all go. I found time for it last year when I was so busy that I barely found time to breathe. The person I was would be furious that I’m letting our dream fall to tatters around me. That I have all this free time now, and I can’t even account for where I spend it. The days and nights running together in a mess of time that I can’t remember.

I once was someone who wasn’t afraid of hard work, who rarely ever said no and gave everything I had to better my life and those of those around me. I was the kind of person who was happiest when I was stressed, when things seemed to be falling apart I found joy in the challenge of pulling it all back together, finding a way to right it all and get back on track.

I once was the kind of person who never turned down a challenge, that took every task given to me and found the fun in it. I was the person who you never saw break, that never complained, that never let it show when I was overwhelmed, angry, or stressed because that was when I excelled. That was the environment in which I thrived. Where I felt alive and in control.

Now I have people who I have to turn to every other day, who pull me up when I get overwhelmed when I get lost in emotions that I can’t control nor make sense of.

Now I’m the person who says no, who couldn’t handle the challenge, nor the simple tasks of day to day life. I’m the one who stays at home, who can’t handle much more than trying to remember to look after herself. My ability to multitask has been replaced with the struggle of trying to remember the one thing I was actively doing. I have people reminding me to do something every few minutes because I can’t do it on my own. All my appointments are in my parent’s calendars so they can remind me of things I have to do that day.

On top of all of this, I am aware I am lucky. Some of those who share my illness can not get out of bed. The simple task of having a shower means that they then require a nap. I know that the best way for me to get better is to do nothing, to relax, to have a holiday and pray in two years that I have enough of a handle on my illness to pretend to be normal. I am overly aware that my grandmother has had the same illness for nearly half a century. That my family history means I may never be who I once was. That the person I had finally learnt to love and be proud of is someone I may never be again.

The person I once was had recovered from a broken heart, had picked up the pieces and come back better than ever. Took a horrible experience and learnt from it. It took four years, but the person I once was had finally figured it all out and was doing whatever she could to achieve the dreams that seemed beyond her reach.

I am the person I once was. I have come back from worse before. I will rise to the challenge this illness brings because if I don’t, then I have nothing. The person I once was never gave up, so I won’t either. I will give my body the time it needs. I will learn to be the person I am now. Find my strengths, my limitations. I will make the most of the situation I have been shoved into.

I will lean on those who are willing to be my pillars of support. The friends that knew the person I once was will learn who I am now, as I do the same. I will learn to ask for help, to accept it from those willing to lend me a hand. I will find a way through this, and the person I once was will be proud of me for it.

This will be the start of my comeback story, part two.

Because who I once was, and who I am now, have one thing in common:

We will never give up, and we will never quit.