Why this? Why me? Why now?
Funny you should ask, actually. I’ve been wondering the same thing for a while now.
What’s my story?
About five or six years ago, I started getting weird symptoms all over the shop; skin, digestion, hormones, you name it. I was in my early twenties and felt like I was going to be in my eighties any minute.
Naturally, I went to the doctor; they put me on The Pill, gave me some antacids, and explained it all away as being in the perfect throes of my prime.
However, this was just the first thread pulled from the sea-grey cashmere sweater of my life. I’ll cut to the chase and say that the whole thing unravelled and I’ve only just picked up my needles and started knitting something new from the pile of yarn left over.
The Fake Diagnosis
Long story (sort of) short, the next several years saw me going to dozens of doctors and specialists, with the diagnosis vacillating from depression, to anorexia, to “lady problems”, to food allergies, to straight up dismissals.
I went from being a normal human to an actual hollowed out shell. It confounds me to this day how my husband didn’t abandon ship a long time ago because things got rough. Really rough.
So, anyway, here we are: my would-be best years incinerating before my very eyes, the prognosis looking more grim on the daily. According to the professionals that I’d paid and been taught to trust, even though nothing was working, everything was fine, so just take some anti-depressants and jump on the medicated bandwagon.
Breakfast, lunch, dinner
Sure. OK. Fine. Except for a few minor details, like being riddled with pain, being unable to eat hardy anything because it might cause myriad biological bombs to explode, my moods were a tempestuous law unto themselves, my hormones and obvious discount joke shop, and I was now 27 years old in a 97-year-old’s body.
I knew it was absolutely ignorant bullshit. Had to be.
The Real Diagnosis
Turns out, the prognosis was worse than I thought. Way worse.
So, I did what I should have done in the first instance, and pulled out the big guns. I found a Functional Medical Practitioner and in next to no time found out I had a life threatening infestation of intestinal parasites. Not to mention, stage 3 adrenal fatigue, hormone imbalances, H. Pylori, systemic yeast/e.coli/strep infections, AND SIBO (small intestinal bacterial overgrowth). WTF?! Are you kidding?
No. I’m not.
This is a parasite
My early mid-life crisis had come, first class, with a big satin bow on top.
I spent two months believing I was going to die any moment due to the possibility of bursting liver cysts.
Plus, I was embarrassed. I couldn’t really tell anyone. I mean, parasites? Disgusting.
Alone. Terrified. Helpless. Useless.
Don’t mess about with your liver. Just don’t.
Besides that, how was I going to work and live and pay for treatments and just get out of bed everyday? I’d never known darkness like this before.
Losing My Mind
I thought knowing what was wrong with me would make it easier to bear, but in a strange way, the diagnosis allowed me to finally let years of self doubt tuck neatly into my brain with a new kind of enthusiasm; the realisation that it wasn’t all in my head and I really actually would’ve died if I’d’ve simply taken the doctors’ advice, made me sick in a terrible, consuming, panicky kind of way.
I had totally lost control. Of everything.
I’m a confirmed conspiracy theorist, but my faith in everything I’d ever been lead to believe in was wrecked.
This had me asking the big ones. The stereotypically existential, on-your-knees, staring down-the-barrel-of-a-gun-questions:
What’s the point?
What even matters?
Why should I bother?
For about two months, you could not see my face for the thick blackness of this heavy psychological inquisition.
Knowing you could die any minute changes you. It certainly changed me. Chewed me up 24 hours a day.
This was me, minus the dress
Spoiler: I made it. Lived.
When it became a chart-and-graph fact that I was not dying and I was finally able to see tiny patches of blue sky again, it was with a vengeance. I just thought, That’s It. This Has Changed Things. I’m Changed, Life’s Changed, Everything’s Changed.
I woke up. Let go. Moved on.
Cut out old habits. Wrote to old friends. Threw out old clothes and that stupid juicer. Looked at myself long and square.
And it hurt, because change is hard. My body was bruised. Relationships ended. My marriage struggled. The old familiar wasn’t the same old comfort I’d always known.
But this was no volunteer group. This was the I Shit You Not Club.
Real real real. And real.
But actually, it’s OK.
Everything actually is OK. I live.
And now I know what kind of a miracle that is.
Now, everything I do is prefaced with one question: Does it matter?
And there are two possible answers:
Yes? Excellent. No? Fuck it.
It’s that simple.
Turns out, near death experiences are pretty useful.
Creating a Beautiful Mindset for a Beautiful Life
It brought to the fore what is worth spending my precious time, energy, health, and love on. Cliché cliché blah blah blah, I know.
But really. Try dying. You’ll understand.
Or don’t. Much easier to take my word for it.
But listen: We’re always on a journey. You. Me. Everyone.
And guess what?
It all has purpose and beauty. Is bursting with it, in fact.
Life is simply beautiful beautiful beautiful – all it takes is a choice to see it that way.
Living in a state of beauty consciousness.
Creating a beautiful mindset to live by. To love by.
So now it’s up to you. To come with me. Learn with me. Be beautiful with me.
Every single reason to party
Tell me. What was the explosive moment that taught you who you really were? When you finally told your grandma you were a lesbian, what happened? When that fucking cancer stole all your beautiful hair, who were you then?