There is something so frustrating about doing everything you’re supposed to do and still ending up in a situation where the treatment for your chronic illness comes with its own list of terrifying possibilities.
I don’t smoke cigarettes.
I don’t drink alcohol more than one or two drinks a year.
I eat relatively well and exercise regularly.
I go to the doctor.
I get blood work, I get scans, I do preventative screenings.
I take vitamins.
I have done all the things we’re told we’re supposed to do if we would like to remain alive and prefer not to die from something stupid or preventable.
And yet here I am, sitting in an infusion center hooked up to a medication that comes with a list of potential side effects that made me wonder how the pharmaceutical company managed to fit all the new diseases I might get onto one fucking warning label.
There is something deeply fucked up about that.
I’m not taking these medications for convenience, for fun, or to fix a health problem caused by poor choices.
I’m taking them because there isn’t exactly another option when your immune system has decided your body is the enemy.
And my doctors are now trying to convince it to calm the fuck down.
Which means I have to basically turn off the very system that is supposed to protect me.
That’s the part people don’t seem to understand about immunosuppressive medications.
I don’t get to choose between taking the scary medicine and simply living a healthier lifestyle.
I fucking wish that were a choice I had.
I’ve been eating right.
Taking vitamins.
Lifting weights.
Trying to get stronger.
For years.
And now I’m sitting here thinking maybe I should have just stayed on the couch eating Cheetos because apparently I’ve been training for the wrong fucking competition.
I spent years making myself stronger and healthier, only to discover that the strongest motherfucker in the room was apparently my own immune system.
And it’s been training against me.
You know those commercials where they spend thirty seconds telling you how wonderful a medication is and then, in the final ten seconds, list 47 ways it could ruin your life?
Those aren’t really commercials I can casually watch anymore.
Because I’m the target demographic.
“Ask your doctor if this medication is right for you.”
At this point, I don’t need to ask if it’s right for me.
I need to ask whether the alternative is worse.
That’s what makes this so fucking frustrating.
And I’ll be honest, sometimes I get irrationally angry when I hear about people taking medications recreationally.
You took that shit because you wanted to.
I would very much like the luxury of making that choice for myself, considering I’ve been working really fucking hard to avoid needing these medications in the first place.
And yet here I am, voluntarily sitting in a chair while someone pumps medication into my veins because apparently my immune system has decided that my body is the enemy.
Although I do wonder sometimes if this is my test in life.
Because I recently learned that childhood trauma can actually rewire your nervous system.
Apparently, the shit that happens to you as a kid doesn’t just disappear because you turned 18, moved out of my parents’ house and flew to the Midwest to start a new life.
Your nervous system can hold onto it.
It can affect how your body responds to stress, contribute to all kinds of weird physical reactions, and may even play a role in autoimmune disease.
So if I’ve learned anything from all of this, it’s that life has never been fair.
I was the scapegoat as a kid and apparently decided to really commit to the role.
Because here I am, decades later, still getting handed shit I didn’t ask for and somehow being expected to respond to it perfectly.
One shitstorm after another.
Go to the doctor.
Take your medications.
Eat right.
Exercise.
Don’t lose your mind.
Don’t be angry. Don’t be bitter. Don’t let it change you.
Work ten times harder for half the results.
Are you fucking kidding me?
I have spent my entire life learning how to survive shit I didn’t cause, and now my immune system has apparently decided to join the family tradition.
And somehow I still feel expected to smile at people who don’t get it, make good choices with hardly any pay off, and pretend this is all part of some beautiful character-building exercise.
At some point you have to wonder…
How much fucking character development does one person need?
Maybe that is the test.
Maybe some higher power really is sitting up there wondering how much this bitch can take.
If that’s the case, I would like to formally request that the experiment be concluded.
I’ve passed.
I don’t need extra credit.
I’ve already got an ostomy.
I’m taking immunosuppressants.
I’m getting infusions.
I’m getting scans.
I’m still showing up to doctor appointments and not demanding a lifetime supply of valium.
If this is a test, I would like to remind whoever is grading it that I’ve already turned in the fucking assignment.
-Job
