Being Strong

I was searching through some papers the other day, and came across my old essays and assessments from when I was at drama school. A ridiculous amount of nostalgia took over, and I abandoned my search in order to read them.

I was 19 when I was at drama school. I was pretty ill, though I didn’t know what with yet, and each day it was getting worse. I read the assessments, and comments on the essays, with a certain level of trepidation. My memory of them was that they were pretty negative, especially in regards to the growing health problems.

As I read through, there was definitely a theme – every tutor had made mention of my illness, but with some distance I was able to see the comments more clearly. Reading these comments, aged 19 with a serious illness looming over me, I discounted all the positive things focusing only on the negatives and qualifying statements. I saw every time my health was mentioned as discounting anything complimentary said before i.e. “She might have the potential to be good, but she’s sick so she can’t possibly be good at anything.”

Reading over them now, I can see that yes, some of the statements were questioning whether I would be able to push through the health problems enough to make it in a tough industry, and others were indeed qualifiers to positive statements made. But many of the comments about my health were actually intensifying the positives. The gist was that it’s not actually that easy to do well in a demanding course anyway, but when you add an illness into that mix working hard to do well is even more of an achievement.

I always feel like a bit of a fraud when people tell me I’m strong, or brave. I often have to bite down on comments about how I’m actually just treading water through most days in the hopes that I can get through them. Sometimes I feel like telling people the only reason I seem strong is that I have my exhausted fall-apart meltdowns in private before I leave the house or after I get home, so I can pretend to be brave while I’m out. I feel like if people saw how I am when they’re not around, they’d think I was weak and pathetic.  

These last few weeks, as the pain and swelling in my hands has gotten worse, it’s been especially easy to slip into thinking of myself as weak. A few weeks ago, I found myself locked out of my apartment, not because I didn’t have my keys with me but because I couldn’t manage to turn them in the lock. A few days later, I spilt a cup of boiling water down myself, because my grip wasn’t strong enough to keep hold of it. Both instances left me feeling anything but strong, but with a bit of distance I realised I was adding in more negatives than there really were. Loosing function in a part of your body is hardly something that’s generally associated with being strong. But getting up and carrying on with life even though that function is gone, and things are getting harder, does take strength. A lot of it. I might feel pathetic for loosing the strength in my hands, but I wonder how many people reading this are thinking “I’ve spilt boiling water on myself before, and I don’t even have bung hands.”

Participating in real life is hard – not just if you have an illness but always. Life is complicated, and confusing and exhausting. It would be easy to check out, and say “I’m ill and I don’t want to.” I know I for one consider it often. Having an illness doesn’t make you strong. The fact that you keep trying, despite the fact that it’s hard, does.

Thanks for reading,

Little Miss Autoimmune

My Amazing Friends

The other day, a couple of ladies came to my door to talk to me about the bible. I’m not really religious, but nor am I not religious, if that makes sense. I talked to them for a little while, all the while feeling excruciatingly embarrassed that I was answering my door in my nightclothes.

At some point during the conversation, I mentioned that I had lupus (probably to explain why I was walking with a crutch, and still in a nightie at midday.) They began talking about suffering, and I said that I didn’t believe you’re given more than you can handle. This was apparently a point of contention, as they immediately began to assure me that God didn’t hand out suffering, the Devil did. The Devil had given me lupus.

I really didn’t know what to say at this point. Part of me wanted to laugh at the image of a red, cloven hoofed Devil going around handing out lupus.

I understand what they were trying to say, but I really didn’t agree with it. I don’t like the idea, that sickness or any kind of suffering is a punishment, or that it is in any way evil. Sure, it can feel evil, but as far as I’m concerned it’s just something that is. Putting a judgement like that on it – thinking of it as a punishment, or as evil, just makes the experience even worse. Sickness etc. is bad enough by itself without adding to it.

I have some amazing people in my life. Many of them have illnesses of some sort – this is not why they’re in my life. Some of them are family members, or people I went to school with. Others I’ve worked with, either in the past or currently. Some I’ve met through support groups, online or in real life. All of them are amazing.

When I said to the ladies at my door, that I don’t believe you’re given more than you can handle, it’s because I look at the people in my life and the ones who have been through the most crap are with out a doubt the strongest of the people I know. I don’t know if they’re strong because they’ve had to be, or if they were always strong and it’s just more visible because they handle the things life throws at them with grace and humour. I suspect that they were always strong. And always amazing.

This is my friend Tessa’s blog. She’s been going through a tough time, with some serious illness this year. She is, without a doubt, one of my strong and amazing friends, but even my strong and amazing friends get down sometimes. So, if you’d like, maybe check out her blog and send some love and positive vibes her way. I’m sure she’d appreciate it.

- Little Miss Autoimmune.