I have a story to tell

In the last year and a half, I’ve made huge strides in recovering my life following the car accident in 2002.  To say “I’ve been to hell and back” is an understatement in describing the last decade.  For far too many years, my quality of life was so abysmal that I had no desire to live.  It got to the point that I’ve had a DNR/DNI in place for the last few years.  I actively wished to die and was working on an assisted suicide plan should I reach a certain point.  I’m happy to say that today that point isn’t even on my radar.

Though I wasn’t believed at the time, in retrospect my medical providers are now accepting that I wasn’t depressed.  Chronic fatigue and chronic pain had robbed me of any semblance of a life worth living.  When my paradoxical reaction to Baclofen lifted the veil of fatigue and my affect, which had been inaccurately defined as depressed, likewise altered, the docs had little choice but to come around.  It’s experiences like these that elicit a desire and, in some sense, a need to share what I didn’t feel able to share or what wasn’t or wouldn’t have been believed if I did share it when I was in the middle of it.  Not ever expecting to make it out the other side and yet doing so, I have a story to tell; a story that unfortunately carries more credibility being told in past than present tense.

As intense as that small snippet sounds, when I managed to make it out of my apartment, I tried to appear as “normal” as possible.  I shared little of what I was going through with anyone other than medical providers, especially Lynda, my “disability therapist.”  I’d learned in 2003 that by sharing what was really going on with me, I was viewed not as tamm, but as disabled tamm.  I learned that if I was ever to be seen other than through the lens of disability, I’d have to do my best to hide it.  It is to and for those living with hidden illnesses and/or disabilities or a loved one that I feel called to share my story.

I’m far from completely recovered, but I have back more of my life than I ever imagined I might recover.  Along the way, I made some decisions that I fully stand by today but which might be viewed  critically or seen as offensive by some.  I’ve been struggling the last couple of weeks with starting this blog because I refuse to live my life in a closet.  If I’m going to share my story, I’m going to share all of it, because the parts that others might view critically are, in many ways, the parts that helped me to persevere.  I’ve decided the best resolution is to mark entries in which parts might be deemed too much for some as “NSFW,” even though I don’t intend to be sharing at such a graphic level as to make them so.  If you think you might be offended, don’t read it!

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