Notice: There are more swear words than normal. I could see this becoming a theme in my grief posts.
I don’t know how I am going to do this. I don’t know how I am going to survive this. I don’t know how to be me. Or at least the me I used to be.
Whew. That was heavy.
Let me be clear before we dive in: this is not a cry for help or a plea for sympathy. And I do know how I am going to make it through. It is by being the same stubborn, sarcastic person who uses humor to soften hard truth as I have always been.
Now that we’ve gotten that out of the way, both of those statements can be true at the same time.
“But Kaelee, how? You seem so put together and happy and determined.”
One: I am not put together, but thank you.
Two: I am happy and determined. But there are still days like today where I am mad and sad and low-energy and in pain and I have no idea what the fuck to do about it.
There are simply days with chronic illness that no amount of happiness or medication or determination can fix. And they scare me.
I made a cute and fluffy post yesterday about the things that make being bed-bound better — and they really and truly do. But at the same time, I lose sight of who I am on bed-bound days. And it hurts. And it’s scary.
When I was getting my Associate’s degree, I was working four jobs and graduated with a 3.9 GPA (I am coming for you, microbiology). When I was working on my Bachelor’s the first go around, I was at Starbucks, managing a recording studio and venue, and working on a radio show in Nashville. I am a goer. A doer. A “sure, I’ll take that on” kind of person. A bunch of other words that are also verbs.
I no longer am.
And I know that’s not entirely true. I am still capable. I am still planning. I am still dreaming. I am incredibly fortunate. But the girl who crawled around on catwalks carrying moving lights at two in the morning fueled by Dr. Pepper and twelve-hour-old popcorn is gone.
I’ll be honest, she was probably gone anyway. I haven’t seen 2am in ages. But letting go of that version of myself when I was ready versus having her stolen from me? Those are two very different kinds of grief.
Both hurt.
But the theft, the loss of a huge part of my identity and my passion, is crushing. It looms around on days like this. Days where I sit on a stool watching my microwave mac and cheese spin because I don’t have the energy to stand. Days where I have physical limitations I didn’t expect until I was in my 80s.
And I need to address something because the conversation always circles back to it. Friends say it. Family says it. My therapist says it. I say it to myself.
I KNOW my life isn’t over.
I KNOW I'm lucky.
I KNOW you’ll find new systems.
I KNOW treatment helps.
See, humor and sarcasm.
All of that is true.
But it isn’t fair to bring logic into the middle of grief.
It’s like walking up to someone at a funeral and saying, “Well, take comfort that they’re in a better place.” It’s kind, it’s well-meaning, but fuck, it doesn’t help.
I miss me.
I miss what was stolen from me. I miss zooming around the house cleaning. I miss walking. I miss leaving the house without a plan and a car full of mobility aids instead of people or pets. I miss so many things.
And I especially miss them on days like today, where I didn’t even make it to 9:30 AM before needing a nap.
How am I supposed to function like this?
How am I supposed to go back to school and someday be someone’s therapist when there are days I debate whether eating is worth the energy and the flare in symptoms?
How am I supposed to go back to work someday when, on top of the physical pain, I’m carrying what feels like a huge, gaping, infected wound where my sense of self used to be?
I know how I am going to do it.
And at the same time, I have absolutely no idea how I am going to do it.
Maybe that’s the truth for now. Maybe doing it doesn’t look like powering through. Maybe it looks like grieving loudly. Maybe it looks like writing this instead of pretending I’m fine.
Maybe it looks like letting both things be true:
I am capable.
And I am devastated.
I don’t know how I’m going to do this. But I am still here. And today, that has to be enough.
