cmdreamer

I was meeting up with my friend who I hadn’t seen in years and I was excited. Normally, a part of me would be itching to find a way out of an outing, especially one in the city. Instead of giving in, I found myself seated in front of her with a coffee in hand and a huge smile on my face.

I felt the embrace of the warmth from the sun and it almost rivaled that of the warmth I felt from catching up with someone I have so much love for. We shared stories, reacting to each other’s life updates with jokes, laughter, and exaggerated faces. Even as I told her about my health, I felt normal. She’d known me almost my whole life so after saying “I have a catheter” I somewhat expected her to look at me differently. 

She didn’t.

We stayed there a little longer until the ice in her coffee had melted and my Americano had become lukewarm. Walking through Manhattan had become second nature to me at that point. I was dodging cracks in the sidewalk and tourists with children without missing a beat. Our conversations flowed over the heads of people splitting in between us. It was so natural. So normal. 

As we neared Penn, I felt a tug and the now familiar feeling of my stomach twisting. 

You’re bleeding. You’re sick. Something is wrong.

I wanted to push through it because it was a beautiful day, so we kept walking until we hit Times Square.

You are internally bleeding. Go home. You have a flight in a week. You won’t be able to go. You have work tomorrow and you have to travel by subway. You’re going to screw it all up because you’re sick and there’s nothing you can do about it. 

I blamed needing to go home on being tired, yet I could not be more awake. I was alert and my anxiety was making sure that not a single one of my muscles could relax. I was wound so tightly, I wondered if I’d snap. 

I couldn’t even focus on our goodbye because my anxiety had taken over. I was on autopilot. My thoughts were racing and my mind was not absorbing anything around me. I might as well have been blindfolded with headphones on. My body moved with practiced precision, but my mind stayed on one topic. 

I walked straight to the bathroom at Penn.

Maybe it’s just because I need to empty my bladder. Maybe it’s just pushing on the catheter. Maybe – blood. 

I’d like to say that after almost a year of having a suprapubic catheter that moments like this don’t upset me. I’d be lying to you and I’d be lying to myself which I promised not to do anymore. As always, it devastated me. It consumed my every thought as I walked to the platform, got on the train, and watched the stops pass by in the window. 

This is your life now. You have to get over it. Stop whining. It could be worse. Other people have it worse. What is wrong with you? You could be dead. You could have killed your kidneys. Then you’d be really sad. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. You are fine. Stop being upset. God, you’re such a baby. How embarrassing.

We approach my stop so I get up and I prepare my face to convey exhaustion over every other emotion that’s passing through me like ripples of a tsunami. You’re fine.

My sister and mom are there to pick me up and thankfully they’re in their own conversation. One that doesn’t need my input. Thank God. My head rests on the back of the seat and I daydream of a normal day in the life of a normal person. You’re not normal and you never will be. 

When that just leads to turmoil, I redirect to finding a reason. Why did I bleed today? What caused it? If I call the nurses they’ll tell me it’s probably fine and they don’t know either. “Maybe it’s an infection” or “maybe it’s from walking too fast”. “Maybe” but never sure. No one is ever sure. I am on my own. 

We stop at Michael’s and my mom asks if I want to come in. When I decline, she turns in her seat. I see her analyzing my face, looking me up and down for any signs of distress. “I’m just really tired.” She nods but I know I didn’t convince her. The door shuts and it’s quiet. 

A deep sigh is released and I sink deeper into the seat. I shift wrong and feel the throbbing of an irritated bladder. I loosen the cardigan around my waist and a lightbulb goes off. When my mom comes back, I finally admit that I was bleeding, that I thought about it and think it was my sweater hitting the incision. 

Ah. An answer.

I haven’t written here for awhile because where I’m at in my journey now is hard to capture. My daily life is full of these moments. Questions without real answers, just speculations. Life is full of unknowns and my anxiety hates this. It takes its frustration out on me.  

Having a chronic condition feels like grieving over and over again anytime there is a flare up or you are reminded that there are limitations to what you can do and experience. And while I am trying to grapple with all these emotions, I am expected to be an employee, a friend, a sibling, a daughter. 

I know they’d understa- how long are you going to keep crying over the same thing? Move on. Everyone else did.

Me 

My Anxiety 

I want to acknowledge that after this day, I traveled to see my best friend and had the most incredible time. I hiked, I spent time in nature, I traveled home to see my siblings graduate, and I already have plans to travel more this month. I am often too quick to dismiss the days anxiety disrupts because it’s convinced me that talking about it is complaining. That I am somehow not showing gratitude for all I can do.

Two things can be true at the same time. I can hurt over the fact that my life is not as I expected it to be. I can also feel grateful that I am able to experience all these wonderful things in my life. One does not negate the other. One does not alter the other. They both exist in me and sometimes it feels as though I am at war with myself.

So, today, I acknowledge the days where contradicting feelings exist in me and I hope that one day, I can hold space for both without judgement. One step at a time.