A Different Way of Life

I don't want to get my hopes up. It's still too early to tell. I mean, maybe it's just the amount of rest I've been getting lately that I usually don't get.

But I think I may just be feeling better.

Why is this such a difficult thing to admit, especially to myself? Why is there a tightness in my chest when I consider the possibility of my health improving? Why is it so scary to feel better? Perhaps it's the possible disappointment, or even devastation that awaits should things prove not to be improving as I think they are. Perhaps it's because whenever this roller-coaster ride we call life starts going up, I can be assured that at some point ahead it will go down again. Maybe it will be just a small dip, nothing too concerning. But the chance that not only will the downward spiral arrive, but that it will take me to depths of physical pain and swelling more akin to a house of horrors than an amusement park ride still scares me. 

It's not that I think I can't handle it or that life will be suddenly horrible if it happens. The idea that I'll once again be able to trust my body instead of trusting that my body will fail is incredibly appealing. But... but...

What if I do feel better and get back into a new, more free, groove? What happens when a major flare comes? What happens when I again need to readjust my perceptions and expectations of life? 

Then it hits me. I'm not afraid to feel better. I'm not afraid to feel worse. I'm having anxiety over change. I've gotten good at sick, immobile, in pain, exhausted, take-it-as-it-comes life.  I'm good at leaving my house three or four times a week for scheduled amounts of time at pre-determined destinations with an array of mobility devices and medications.

If I'm better, things are going to change. The only change I've experienced in a very long time has been a change in the intensity of my illness, not the change from very ill to better. 

Better is a different way of life. 


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