On Mucus, Urine, and Peace

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Mucus:

I’m home sick—”normal” sick. I have plump yellow and green stuff building up, breaking up, and making its way out. The “normal- sick” sensation remains one to rejoice over. I didn’t experience this for a couple of years—something about Lyme making it impossible for my immune system to work enough to fight common infection—I don’t get it. But what I DO get is that yellow stuff equals normal infection and that’s the kinda thing I’m after. So, hooray, right? Well, not quite.

A couple of weeks ago, I received an emergency phone call from my immunologist. I’m on Medi-cal. For the most part, Medi-cal doctors do not emergency- phone- call me—I’m lucky if they know who I am, can find my files, or call me back after I leave a 911 message. It’s been one of the most frustrating things about being sick: bad doctors, poor treatment. But as the most unpleasant of pleasant surprises, a couple of weeks ago, I got two emergency phone calls, one after the other, “Jacqueline, we need you to come in first thing in the morning to review your recent blood work and get the process started for the IVIG.It’s very important we get going.” I know what my numbers are (I’ve been following them closely and consistently telling the doctor that I need to get started on the IVIG) but still the phone call scared me. It must be bad if the doctor is going out of his way to call, I thought. 

Ian took off of work and came with me to the appointment. He was  immediately kicked out of the consultation room due to HIPAA laws. It was all a new experience. No one has ever been kicked out of a consultation with me before, and I have had many friends come to appointments with me. Ian was sent away because he is not my “husband.” Of course, I immediately perked up, wondering, “Hmmm will this make him propose?” I can’t help it. But the doctor pulled me out of that fantasy with all of the scary annoying information that I’m constantly being dealt.

ME: “Can we wait for Ian so that he can absorb all of this information you’re giving me? That’s why he’s with me.”

Doctor: “How much schooling do you have? Are you educated?”

Me: “excuse me?”

Doctor: “Did you go to school? Can you absorb information?”

Me: “I went to school. Some college. And longer training in my field.”

Doctor: “Ok so you don’t need Ian to absorb this information. You’re smart enough.”

What a dick.

He had on one of the most blatant toupees I’ve ever seen. I wanted to rip it off his head and do mean things with it.  Him and his stupid toupee.

Oh, Medi-cal.

Ian signed some paperwork and made it back in time just to hear one last thing. The old toupee’d doctor shook Ian’s hand and said, “Just make sure she doesn’t get sick. Because if she gets sick, what we are worried about is that her immune system can’t fight infection so she could get pneumonia and die. You two have a good day.

You’d think that they would have rushed to get my IVIG figured out considering the threat of death they kicked us out the door with but no: They still haven’t even submitted my file to the infusion company. COOL.

So, while I’m slightly rejoicing over the magical feeling of ‘normal’ illness, I have a little voice—no a giant voice—shouting “don’t get sick. Too late. DEATH awaits.”

Also on a much less dark/devastating note, I am bored as fuck. I am bored, slightly depressed, and lonely and wondering how in the ever-loving fuck I did this for two years!? I stayed in bed, at home, walking from the kitchen to bed to the bathroom for two years. It’s been 24 hours and I feel like a lunatic.

I’m amazed by what we can tolerate as humans when we have no other choice.

Urine:

February 13th was my first day off in a while. It wasn’t even a day off. It was just the morning and afternoon that I had off. Another miracle! I used to have everyday at home and now it’s so sparse that I sometimes crave days to stay at home. In fact, the truth is that on February 13th, I had to cancel plans to stay home so I could pee into a bottle for six hours in “Peece.”

Let me explain: I have this new amazing doctor in New York (that my mother generously paid for) and he suggested/ordered a heavy metal pee test. That’s not what he called it. He used more pro lingo like “urine sample.” I was grateful for the test. It’s the first time in my illness that I feel ready to deal with whether or not I have heavy metal toxicity. Yes, I got my amalgams removed, and took ALA, and ate lots of cilantro, and took loads of charcoal and detoxed like a mofo so it’s not like I wasn’t already taking some actions, but, all of this time, I didn’t have the emotional or physical capacity to find out IF I was actually toxic—I was in NO position to chelate so it didn’t seem constructive to find out IF I was toxic. But now I’m ready.

I received the kit. It was  a cardboard box equipped with a giant plastic bottle, a plastic cup for you to pee in and then transfer to the bottle, and then a small test-tube  vial to eventually send off. You also have to keep your cherished pee in the fridge all day as you add more and more. YUM. I have a slight— or maybe major— obsession with my pee. It’s like a competition I have with myself everyday: How clear can I urinate today? How hydrated am I? Am I acidic or alkaline? It may seem ridiculous but these are the things that get me through. I was uncannily excited about seeing what a giant jug of a day’s pee would look like,  and, I’m here to tell you, it looked FAB. A slight yellow tint but otherwise just hydrated perfection.

I NEEDED to show Ian and my roommate. I needed to brag about my ph levels and my pretty piss. Ian got grossed out and I got mad at him. We often fight about things like this. I think it’s OK to pee in the shower; he thinks it’s disgusting. I think it would be fun to cross streams in the shower; he thinks it’s disgusting. I think it’s hilarious to pee on or near each other when we’re in the ocean; he, again, thinks it’s disgusting. OK, fine. We agree to disagree.

But it only seemed fitting that for Valentine’s day, I would need his help dealing with my urine specimen. I wasn’t going to be home to hand over my specimen to the FedEx guy so he needed to do it. What a man: he rushed home from work and the handoff was successful. That was, for sure, the sweetest thing he did for me on Valentine’s day: passed my beautiful urine to a total stranger.

Happiness

On the topic of romance, last week Ian and I had a terrifyingly vulnerable “chat”—maybe it’s classified as a fight?  But we don’t really fight. He talks, I talk, I cry, we hug, we have sex. We weren’t exactly disagreeing or raising voices—is that what classifies a fight? I don’t know. I grew up with very real fighting so maybe I’m nt the best to ask.

Regardless, near the end of this “talk,” I was scrunched up, sweating, and nauseous and he was standing against a door frame. He said, “I guess all I really want is for you to be happy. I just want you to be happy. Sick or not.”

QUIET. TEARS. SWEAT.

He thinks I’m unhappy? Am I unhappy? After we made up and moved on, I had to do some investigating. No one has ever looked through me like that and accused me of being an “unhappy” person. I’m smiley, and sparkly, and joyful and also…moody. That night, I thought (and haven’t stopped thinking), what is happiness? Happiness is short- term. It’s a state of mind that comes and goes. I don’t even want to walk around happy all of the time: How boring, how false, how inauthentic. Still, it was painful to finally admit to myself: I am not happy; I am hopeful. The last three years of illness have taken a toll on me. I have, truth be told, been more sad than happy. But I certainly don’t need to berate myself for this—I have compassion for myself, AND I’m ready to outgrow some of what has held me down. But still, the more I thought about it, happiness is not the end goal. Too much pressure. I know enough now to know that I have no idea what life has in store for me—there will be joyous times and shit times.  I think being “happy” is a bullshit blanket statement. I almost wanted to take that word right out of my vocabulary. I was so mad at it. I wonder how many people feel pressured to be happy? It’s not what I want.

I want PEACE. I want an inner peace so sturdy that it can hold the joy and the sadness—the ups and downs. What a freedom to not be striving for happiness. It lands me right in the present moment. Peace. When do I feel most peaceful? When I am most connected to something bigger than me. When I am helping others. When I am present. HERE, doing the next right thing. Whether that’s peeing in a bottle, drinking lemon cayenne water to bust my mucous, watching Schitt’s Creek,  getting on the stage to perform, writing, having sex, talking to friends, and the list goes on. Peace is possible. I’m excited to have something new to strive for everyday. I feel free.

Other things I wrote/ am offering this week:

On patience

On romance

with fun and love and peece,

Jackie

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

I am Lonely; I am Loved

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Throughout illness, I could not simply or efficiently answer the question I was so often presented with: “how are you?” I’m sure the answer seemed like an obvious, “not good.” To  the outside eye— I was undeniably amidst a shipwreck. I was skinny and pale and frail and depressed and being told there was probably no way out.  But “not good” didn’t resonate—it wasn’t true. The experience of being sick  felt (feels/felt/feels) dynamic.  I was learning indispensable lessons. I was developing as a human, deepening as a spirit and as a creative. I was gaining a wealth of knowledge and a sea of love and compassion. How could I be miserable about such a beautiful makeover?  I was very hopeful—always, almost painfully hopeful. I once read that “hope is the opiate for the truly hopeless.” I wondered if that was me. I still wonder if that is me. Maybe it is, but it feels more true to say that it has been light and dark all at once. All of my life, maybe—I have felt the lightness in equal proportion to the darkness. Amongst these monumental inconsistencies was the desperate loneliness I felt while absorbing more love than I even knew existed. A love not only from my fellows but also from myself. But what brings me to this post is not necessarily the reflection of the past (although, I am very much reflecting) but the feeling I have presently: Why after getting so much healthier do I still sometimes feel so completely heartbreakingly alone?

I had never felt more alone in my life; I had never been more surrounded with love. The two have sat side by side for the last three years fighting for attention. Well which is it—are you lonely or grateful?  The gnawing ache of isolation— the total seclusion— paired with a swelling of people and homemade food and an abundance of affection. It was (is/was/is/was)  a loneliness that felt like punishment, that took a chainsaw to my heart, slicing away the pieces that felt uplifted and loved;  It was (is/was)  a groundbreaking, fascinating  joy and comfort I experienced as a community of protectors gathered around me. There was an army gathering for ME, with my life as their cause. But what was, in some ways, even more profound, was the experience of me leading the army. All  of those moments in the day when no one was there holding me up, I was handed an opportunity to hold myself. In my insomnia ridden madness, when my portion of the world was silenced and inaccessible, I got  to know myself. I got to learn to have a relationship with myself thus altering my life forever into a more comfortable existence. And yet, knowing myself, loving myself, and experiencing a hearty love all around me didn’t  completely cure the loneliness that comes with being sick (sick/ human/sick/human?).

I spent months—maybe a year, who knows—lying in bed during the sun-drenched hours. The hours one was “supposed” to be outside.  The majority of my days were spent in one corner of my bedroom locked inside of my body. My bed had lost the value it held in comfort at that point. A bed is only exciting, cozy and comfortable when you aren’t forced by some tyrannical bacteria to be in it all of the time. In a dire search for entertainment, I listened intently for every rustle in the trees and for the intricacies in the songs the birds sang. I know it’s 2017 and there are so many options for entertainment and it seems ludicrous that I would have to resort to the noises outside of my window to do the trick, but, at my sickest, I couldn’t tolerate the dynamic, intrusive noise of the television, I was too tired to read, and I was in too much pain to sleep. Not to mention, that I couldn’t emotionally tolerate the television,  I was unable to stomach the effortless joy and beauty that sitcom characters presented. Watching television added to my loneliness—it was a reminder that life was happening and I wasn’t invited to the party. It was the same when my neighbor had band practice. The mysterious band practice always happened in the evening. The sun light would be slowly departing —a measure of the time, of how little I’d done that day, of whether or not I had eaten anything, of the fact that bed time was coming and I wouldn’t be lucky enough to actually fall asleep. An aggressive depression barged in, another day gone and wasted. At the center of my depression were the faint sounds of drums and guitars— my peers able to express themselves creatively, easily taking part in their preferred art form.  Their music mocked me. Band practice would finish, the sky would be midnight blue, and I would be in the same—or similar— position that I started my day in. Closing my eyes made my heart race and dropped me into my body in a way that increased discomfort so, like an infant, I looked at everything. I looked at whatever the moonlight revealed to me outside of my window. I looked at the colors in my room, I listened to audio books about self-compassion. I heard my roommate get home verging on early morning hours after a full day of not being home. I could do that once. I could come and go, taking for granted the kind of energy it took to “come and go.” I could get home late. And I could easily and organically just…fall asleep. I missed those days.    My peers were at work, at yoga class, hiking, on set, traveling, at lunch dates and coffee dates, dancing, going to the movies, and I was still in bed. Those were the loneliest days of my life. Even when i went out, I was separate. I was more tired. I was too tired to converse. That kind of fatigue locks you in your body, in your bones into a sort of quick sand of self-pity. To look at the world and not feel a part of the world. I felt like I was behind one-sided mirror. I was able to see everyone, living, doing just fine, but I was alone, no one saw me, no one cared because I barely had the energy to speak up: we were separate, you could never know how bad I felt.

And yet, people called everyday. Countless people were willing to help me. People brought me food, they sat in that bed with me, in that corner of my room. My friends skyped with me, my mailman delivered multiple care packages, friends were willing to listen to me, to hold me while I cried. My boyfriend never once complained about all of the laying in bed we did—in fact, he let me know that he wanted to lay in bed with me because he was WITH ME. One of my best friends ran a fundraiser for me. People donated. People that I barely knew jumped on board to warrior for me, donating consistently, sharing on social media constantly. The love was ENDLESS. I was put in touch with person after person after person who also suffered from illness. And, in speaking and laughing with one another, loneliness often evaporated on the spot only to creep back in later. My dear friend came to Southeast Asia with me and took care of me for two months—feeding me, watching movies with me, healing with me. Another friend flew a more manageable distance across the states to wheel me to and from doctor’s appointments. I was written letters, poems, emails and texts all with the same sentiment: You’ve got this, and we’ve got you. My roommate whom I envied for her energy was a house of compassion and cheerleading. And,as for myself, I was growing more and more in love with myself everyday—not in a narcissistic pseudo-love way but in the way you innocently come to love a child. As I got to know myself, I got to forgive myself and have compassion for myself. I had ignored me for far too long and she was fucking screaming for some attention and acknowledgement. I met myself in person, and I wanted her autograph.

And with all of that experience, all of that love thrown at me in an almost reckless way, (we are talking love on top of love on top of love from all ends of the Earth: Need more? Have more.) I still felt (feel/felt/feel/felt) lonely as fuck. It’s not that I feel sick and separate anymore.  I feel entirely human again, albeit a bit tired and with maybe a smaller bandwidth than others. But I’m certainly not locked in a corner of my bedroom; I am cruising through the sunshine on foot. I’m cruising lonely. And loved. People kept telling me while I was very sick that no one could ever know or understand what I was feeling in my body. Because it’s impossible—the feelings exist only in my body, I can’t show you or share with you, we are separate and always will be. I can write about my experience and some people will relate but it remains my own. And so perhaps it’s just lonely to be human. A biological impenetrable wall. And maybe pre-illness, I was fighting that reality. I so needed “the pack,” I needed us to fully get one another and be together and do it together, and understand each other. I took no comfort in myself. I’m still sad that this experience of illness has been mine and mine only—that no one will ever be able to know all of the precise obstacles I had to experience through illness; and that I will never understand the precise obstacles you had to experience through illness or whatever you’ve gone through.  And there we go again: we are all having the same experience of individual experiences—we are all susceptible to be misunderstood. We are all alone, therefore we are never alone—we are one.

Fun and love and a broken isolation barrier,

Jackie

 

 

I Don’t Want to Lock up my Feelings

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When I was home for the holidays, a basket full of papers and old chachkies was handed to me. I was meant to sort through it and throw stuff out. It was like a grab-bag of old family memories—things that brought a smile to my face, others that made me grimace. I pulled out a purple book, decorated with Esmerelda from the Hunchback of Notre Dame. I immediately recognized it as the first journal I ever kept—I was 11. An age that I was unafraid of my passions, an age that offered a soft FULL heart and a spirt that, as an adult, I can’t quite find. As I read some of the brilliantly sweet things I wrote, I felt sad that I ended up taking such a violent detour, I felt inspired by my young self, and I laughed…hard.

I was a certifiable love addict, dreamer, and  codependent. But I also had the kind of innocent wisdom that we can use today, in this angering time. I can only hope it brings a smile to your face as well, reminding you of the simpler things and inspiring you to love.

“A journal is thoughts and feelings. It’s important. It’s called…MY BOOK OF TRUE FEELINGS.” 

“I’m excited. Did you ever know what you want and then never let go of that feeling of wanting and nervousness if you’re gonna take the right road or not? Well, I want to be an actress. I have that feeling. It’s actually kind of a scary feeling. I’m feeling tired. Goodnight.” 

“Why do I want some dreamy way of getting a boyfriend? Ugh hormones….not really.” 

“I want a baby. Not like every other girl wants a baby.More than that. I feel like I could be the real #1 mom. I dream about that day where I get all sweaty and push so hard and cry and say ‘it’s a girl/boy’ I’m going to love that day and that baby more than anything.” 

“I can’t wait for that moment where I know that I’m falling in love. I want to say I love you to a man and mean it. I don’t know why some people say it when they don’t mean it. I know what love is. And I’m lucky that I know what it feels like and I love the feeling. It feels like nothing could happen. You’re nourished. It’s like sweetness of sugar which always gets you hyper and excited. You close your eyes and dream up this wonderful and clueless feeling and have that feeling every minute of the day. I hear the whistle of the wind and the beat of my heart. And at the same time I hear ‘I love you.’ “

“I’ve been thinking and I’ve decided to look at the way things are better than worse. I want to tell you about this book. I got it from Oma and Opa and used it as a diary. But I wrote stupid things so I ripped those pages out and made it the book of true feelings. I took the lock off because I don’t want to lock up my feelings. I don’t even hide the book!” 

“Mom had to get a tissue sample this morning. I was so nervous. It felt like the world stopped and I had to hold it in my hands until I knew Mom was OK. It was hard for me. It took strength. She’s OK. I was relieved when I came home from school and found out it was just menopause. The world began again and as I opened my sweaty hands and released my breath everything felt like a rose at that moment.” 

“Some people can have so much fun spinning in circles but sometimes you have to watch your step. You could end up falling.” 

“I’ve been unreal lately. I’m not sure exactly what I’m talking about but it’s a feeling that I have. What’s next? The feeling of lateness, cruelness, sadness? If only we could know ahead of time.You have to take a guess and when your guess is wrong it could do damage.”If heaven has ponies and big fluffy clouds then why does earth have to be fighting  and littering. Why must we have wars and death? I wish everyday could be a happy day. I wish that for one day nobody would fire a gun or do anything to hurt themselves or another person. I want to keep writing forever and ever.” 

“I feel sad lately. One day makes no difference all it is, is the day before today and days pass so quickly sometimes. I feel like I’m not even living. I dream of getting married. I used to dream about going into Junior High School. Soon I’ll go to High School. I still remember Kindergarten. I feel like I’m 100 years old.” 

“Why do some people like to be mean and make fun of the handicapped? The answer is they want to fit in. It makes me sad.” 

“I love someone. I feel it. I wish I knew who! I’m beginning to feel cries on the inside like my stomach is bubbling. I think I like Dennis. I THINK. I know I like Nick. I KNOW. As a matter of fact, I think I love him.”

“I started crying but I don’t know why. Something hurts me but I don’t know what.” 

“I’m full of tears lately. Over the silliest things. If everything could be exactly as you waned then it wouldn’t be life. I wish that everyday we could have something to look forward to. Some people have that. What’s going on? I’m changing…almost like Jekyl and Hyde. I wish I could wake up happy every morning, but I can’t. And that’s life.” 

 

3 years later, I wrote one entry:

“I’ve taken a new outlook on life: Fuck the world. It’s working good.” 

Here’s to getting back to our purer hearts.

Fun and love,

Jackie

Treating Anxiety, Part I

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In 1998, at ten years old, I discovered that Mama Cass died choking on a ham sandwich. Maybe I heard it on TV. Or maybe I was eavesdropping on some random adult chatter. Or maybe my mother told me during one of my relentless questioning sessions about all of her favorite musicians.  It doesn’t really matter. What matters is that with that news, I was hit— for no rational reason— with life-changing fear. My brain grabbed onto this idea of “death -by -choking” like a shark grabs its prey: What if I choke in the school lunchroom,  nobody hears me over the chatter and I die? Days passed as that thought flipped and flopped and tossed and turned restlessly—violently—through my brain. Choke and die, choke and die, choke and die.  I sat through school lunches half invested in the innocent adolescent conversations about lipstick and half obsessed with my imminent death. One March day, the thoughts were so overbearing that when I took a sip of my peach flavored Snapple, it went down the wrong pipe, coughing commenced, and I came into contact with my first debilitating panic attack.

“Are you ok? Jackie, are you ok?”  The teacher spoke to me over the microphone, “stand up, stand up.” I stood up. I was overheated from both embarrassment and physical stress. I was already unpopular, but now an entire cafeteria of cruel ten and eleven year olds were staring at me.  I gasped for breath and simultaneously considered my poor wardrobe choice that day. If I had known I was going to be the center of attention, I wouldn’t have worn that stupid pink cardigan and those unbecoming gray sweatpants. “Nod your head, nod your head,” the teacher was saying, “do we have to do the Heimlich?” I knew they didn’t have to do the Heimlich. After all, it was only Snapple that I was “choking” on. But I certainly wasn’t going to admit that, not after the spectacle I was creating. My coughing slowly subsided, and a  breath of relief rippled through the couple hundred kids in the cafeteria…  immediately followed by an outburst laughter. I sat down, wanting to hide, and suddenly—just like that— all of the ease I had previously lived with was gone. Who knew that it was a luxury to be able to interact with your peers, go to school, eat lunch, and exist in the world without a consistent feeling of impending doom holding you back?  I tried to act normal. I walked with the herd to my next class, took my seat, stared at the chalkboard, and wrung my sweaty hands seeking some sort of solace in myself. Something was infinitely unsafe, but I didn’t know what so I couldn’t even protect myself. The walls were closing in on me, my friends looked like enemies, words were muttered, faces were fuzzy, and I burst into tears.

I was sent to the nurse’s office. I could barely speak by the time I got there. Sweating through that stupid fleece cardigan, I was crying so hard that I could only gasp out one  comprehensible word at a time, “I—choked. and. am. —scared.” The nurse looked at me confused and harshly, got me a five ounce dixie cup of water, and led me to a small, poorly lit,  corner room. There was one beige metal folding chair meant for me to collect myself on. “Sit in here and calm down,” she said.  I took the seat thinking I’d rather be anywhere else or maybe nowhere at all. I wanted a hug desperately. That is what I wanted. As the nurse closed the door, I heard her say to her colleague, “I mean, seriously, she should be able to control herself, she’s ten years old. What’s wrong with her? My God.” Did she think I couldn’t hear her? I was so embarrassed, so ashamed.  I didn’t know what was wrong with me, and if I could have controlled it—like she was suggesting— I certainly would have.

By the time I got home that day, I had decided that I should probably never leave my bedroom again and that I should definitely never eat again. If it was up to me, I would have lived a very small life. My parents got in the way of my ideas.

I cried through dinner one night, trying to spoon a small amount of plain broth into my mouth but every time I looked at the bowl of liquid, I was hit with the memory of “choking” in the lunchroom. I just cried and shook until my father lost his cool, dropped his fork and said, “What’re you gonna do? Never eat again? If you went outside and tripped and fell, would you never go outside again?”  I felt pathetic. What I was experiencing was NOT logical and could not be beaten with logic.

My mother held me in bed that night as i sobbed and sobbed. I said, “I wish I had some physical illness. Even cancer. Anything but this. It’s so scary.” And I meant it. I was in unthinkable pain. Thankfully, my mother understood what I was experiencing due to her own turbulent history with panic attacks and, as a by-product, she pushed me. She wasn’t going to let me become a slave to my anxiety. It was strategic, and it was brilliant. She sent me to school everyday, she denied me medication even though doctor’s suggested it, and I was forced to take part in all daily commitments whether I sobbed through them or not.  To this day, I consider it the greatest gift my mother gave me. To this day, I consider it her shining moment as a parent.

When my seventh grade field day came around, I was hit with a new deepening wave of panic. Who knows why. There was no real why. At 7:30 am, I hid in the closet sobbing, “I’m not going. Please, please, please don’t make me go.” I begged for an hour until the bus came and my mother lovingly pushed me out the door. I went. I mean, I WAS forced.  I went full of terror, but I went. And, as the day went on under the suburban sun, the fearful pangs subsided. The distraction was helping. The sun was helping. Exercise was helping. I was easily able to take part in field day activities, and I even won a flimsy second place ribbon for a short-distance race. By the end of the day, I felt great, and I was deeply proud of myself.  I sprinted through my door that afternoon, impatiently shouting at my mother, “mom, mom. I had the best day ever. Thank you for making me go! Look, I won 2nd place in the sprint!” She was so proud of me. In that one day, I had instanteously grown muscle where there wasn’t any, I had a new life experience that would forever change the way I lived—a reference point for what it felt like to feel the fear and do it anyway which remains a saying I try to live by. Curiously—or not so curiously— I didn’t have another panic attack for seven years.

At nineteen years old, everything I had learned about coping with anxiety was put to the test. My panic attacks came back, and this time they were not so easily defeated.

To be continued….

Love,

Jackie

 

What this Election Season Made Me See, and Why I’m With Her.

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I am a woman with a hard-hearted history towards women’s issues—I was quick to unite with sexist men in an effort to gain their attention and approval. I’m ashamed to say that I thought women were being over-dramatic and whiney about what I once also considered “locker room talk.” I didn’t understand why women found cat calling so annoying and disrespectful. I was all “free attention? what’s the problem?” I came from the “I’m asking for it” line of thinking. Yes, even around rape. My father and brother made it very clear that whatever came my way…I WAS asking for it, that I was a “whore”, and that if men ever had a bar fight it was the woman’s fault. Because women don’t know how to keep their mouths shut. And now we have a big-mouthed MAN named Donald Trump, and his words may kill millions of people. His slandering words directed at women have made me sick to my stomach—partially because it’s not my first time hearing them. His center stage presence has propelled me to ruminate about WHY I ever thought it was okay to speak about women like he does— why I once was the girl who preferred to be “one of the guys,” how it feels to be a girl who has been sexually degraded, mistreated, and abused. How it feels to be a terrified girl. And also how it feels to be an incredibly powerful and intelligent woman. His words have been like gasoline to my inner-fire for FEMALE.

I spent most of my life trying to be more masculine. I was brought up to believe that the only asset women had was their sexual power—their hotness. And if that’s really all we had to offer then we better be very very hot. It seemed like by my generation,  the expectation of aprons and dish gloves lifted and was replaced with an expectation for smoking hot sex, perfect vaginas, perfect faces and perfect bodies. I got “lucky” and happened to be a very pretty young woman. I didn’t need hair dye, diets, or proactiv to be considered attractive.  I strategized for my father’s love by leading with red-hot sexuality and supplementing with  “manly” qualities: a firm handshake, a foul mouth, drinking, being low maintenance, being a smoker, a wide strut, ego, confidence, drive, having a pair of “balls,” being drama free, being a go-getter, provider, money earner, heavy hitter, etc. Of course this definition of manly is what my upbringing showed me; these qualities do not represent manliness. My target was to be the sexiest girl in the room while also being “one of the guys.” When I was about seven, I told my father I wanted to be a football player. Trust me, I didn’t. I just wanted his attention. That’s the way it starts. That’s the innocent version of needing Daddy’s attention. The more grown up version is unsavory to say the least.

I wanted to make my crack smoking, cheating, lying father proud. He was the STRENGTH. He made the money. He drove the Porsche, and he used his money to control us. I wanted to be like him. Hard like him. Not soft and weak like my mom. I cheated, I lied, and I did drugs. I desperately sought love and affection from men. I took my clothes off in front of crowds, I danced on tables, and I made out with all of the girls FOR all of the boys, and precarious situations were the result. I was told that any trouble was my own fault because I was a “slut.” But really, I was a young teenager with minimal guidance, and I didn’t know how else to get “love.”

I was 16 and my father was leaving the house to go see his new mistress. I stood in the kitchen, watching him go, not knowing if I’d see him again. I begged him, pleaded with him, to come back to us when my eye caught something strange sticking out of his “briefcase.” It wasn’t really a briefcase anymore. It was an overflowing sack of dregs and crap, but there was this shiny photo sticking out that looked familiar. It was my headshot. “Dad, why do you have my headshots in that briefcase?” He laughed and twitched and spurted out from a thumping heart, “Oh! I carry them around and tell people you’re my wife.” I was confounded and silenced. And he left. What people? His drug dealers? And also, sadly, I felt loved. At least he wants me. Did he tell the creep he copped from the other day, I wondered. He had sat me down around that time to boast about how he saved some girls from drug-den torment. Apparently, his dealer had a couple of girls over and when my dad paid for the drugs, the dealer said, “watch this.” The dealer tossed the drugs and told the naked girls to get down on all fours and “fetch.” My father bragged to me, ” I kicked him down and told him that I have a daughter and how dare he treat women like that. I beat the shit out of him, Jack.” I stared at him baffled AND totally jealous. He was taking care of those girls and not me. Did I need to degrade myself that much to get his attention? And also I really hoped he didn’t show that guy my picture. Because dealers were coming to our house seeking out my dad and I was really scared that they had seen my picture. Because I am a woman and constantly afraid of being raped.

Where was my dad when I was 17 and ended up in an empty parking lot with a guy three times my age and three times my size. A guy who was supposed to be helping me “straighten out my life” took me somewhere private and told me to sit on his lap—that I needed a hug. I cringed as he pulled me over to him but I didn’t know how to stop him because I was afraid to use my voice and I didn’t know how. Because I didn’t want to excite him further. Besides, it seemed like I hadn’t been hugged in a while.

When Hillary and Trump took the stage, I  didn’t actively care so much about women’s issues —well, not beyond our right to choose. Initially, I was not a huge Hillary fan. You know why?

I was a pre adolescent when Bill Clinton was in office and what I remember about the Clintons is this: Chelsea Clinton was “ugly” and Hillary was laughable. Why? Chelsea was a bookish looking teenager and Hillary cared more about the state of affairs than her body or her dresses. For that, the pair were the butt of many jokes in my home. Because they weren’t sexy.

 

And as the 2016 election rolled on, I was getting more and more fired up for Hillary and more and more angry at Trump.  Here’s just a sliver of what Donald Trump has said about women:

He  has called women “bimbos,” “pigs,” “gold diggers,” and “FAT” He’s compared women’s faces to the faces of dogs.

He said, “If Hillary Clinton can’t satisy her husband, what makes her think she can satisfy America?” Ouch.

He tweeted, “While Bette Midler is an extremely unattractive woman. I refuse to say that because I always insist on being politically correct.” Unattractive? Bette Midler founded the New York Restoration Project in 1995. That’s your city, Donald. How about thank you?

His favorite part of Pulp Fiction is when Sam tells the guy to tell his girlfriend to be cool. He said, “‘Bitch be cool.’ I love those lines,” Donald said.

Donald Trump said women should be punished for having abortions. I was scared because my boyfriend was abusive and I didn’t want to live a life like my mother lived and I didn’t want my child to experience an upbringing like I had. I was with the guy because he was just like my father and I didn’t know better yet. You want to punish me?

Donald Trump joked that he would date his daughter. “If Ivanka wasn’t my daughter perhaps I’d be dating her.” Yeah, my dad thought that was funny, too. It fucked me up. Ivanka, my heart goes out to you and to your mother who accused your father of rape. 

He said this about Katarina Witt,  the gold-winnning olympic athlete: “Wonderful looking while on the ice but up close and personal, she could only be described as attractive if you like a woman with a bad complexion who is built like a linebacker”.

He mocked Rosie O’Donnells weight. Multiple times. Rosie started the Rosie’s For All Kids Foundation for disadvantaged children.  What has Donald done? No, really—WHAT has he done?

Oh, he ran beauty pageants and you know how he ran them… He had pageant girls parade in front of him so he could separate who he found attractive and who he didn’t. Before the pageant even began, he sent girls home. Thank you for contributing more image issues, humiliation and insecurity in women world-wide.

He tweeted: “26,000 unreported sexual assaults in the military- only 238 convictions. What did these geniuses expect when they put men and women together?” THEY EXPECTED MEN NOT TO RAPE. 

Maybe that’s confusing for Donald Trump considering he has had three rape allegations against him.

And then there was the— now infamous— tape of him bragging about all of his “pussy-grabbing” and his ability to kiss whoever he wants because he’s famous. That’s terribly bothersome, but what bothered me more about the video was the woman who greeted him immediately after his comments with a big smile and a great dress. The way he kissed her. The sly and creepy way he put his arm around her, and the way she seemed to not care. The way she hung her sex up on his arm and the way he carried it with pride and said “Melania said it’s ok.”  I’ve been that pretty girl.  It’s not rewarding. And I can’t stomach that being a woman’s role in society anymore.

After that video, a new tweet surfaced: #repealthe19thamendment . And that’s when my heart broke and I got really scared. This is the man my country elected to run for President? And, he’s not even far behind. Oh my god. How many people feel this way about women?

I do not need any more time in my life dictated by an ego maniacal sexist. By the way, my father destroyed his life and ours in the process. I have direct experience with what an ego like that can do. There’s no money—only debt. There’s no love, only psych wards, and hospitals, and heartbreak. That’s all. I will do everything I can to negate this crazy belief that what we have to offer as women is sex, attractiveness, “a pleasing aesthetic.” I will be part of making a woman president. Not because she’s a woman and not because she fits some bullshit standard but because she is smarter. She has more experience. She has self-control. She is stronger. She has self-restraint. She has WORKED HARDER. She is wiser. She has compassion. She cares. Her fortitude is admirable. Her policies are logical. She HAS policies.  She deserves to be the next President of the United States. And I’ve never been so proud to be FEMALE.

 

The Symptoms, Part One: Depression

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I sat submerged in the bath water.  The bathroom was dark and quiet, lit only by one large, flickering candle. My face dripped with sweat from the steaming hot water infused with epsom salts. I was motionless. Only my eyes shifted, taking note of my surroundings— the blue walls, the dancing light, the sparkly new bathtub—I worked hard to have my old one replaced because it presented with moldy spots, and as a person recovering from Lyme disease, the sight of mold scared me— and the water. I noticed the still water, and it was calling me to go under, go quiet, go completely still until my heart stopped beating. I stared at this element that I once found harmless and enjoyable, and how weird that I suddenly couldn’t see any other use for being in the bath other than it being the thing that assisted in my death. Why hadn’t I noticed that before? It seemed so obvious. How easy and seemingly peaceful it would be to just go under water and stay there. All of the hell I was living would stop—no more doctors, no more pain, no more fear, no more needles, no more uncertainty, no more isolation, no more crying and staring out of the window next to my bed, no more HOPING, and no more being let down. The temptation was great. I was spiraling and then suddenly I gasped because I had stopped breathing, and I pulled myself up to sitting. The water rippled with force and I frantically pulled the drain open and jumped out of the tub. The appeal was so great that I thought I shouldn’t use a knife or get in the car for the next couple of days.That night I became  intimately acquainted  with the  profound uses of everyday appliances. And I needed to protect myself.

That’s the type of depression that taunted me during my sickest year and a half.  In the moments that symptom flare- ups made death seem imminent, I would be almost relieved, “good. let it be over. I don’t want to live like this. This is not a life.” Sometimes, I hoped I wouldn’t wake up in the morning. It felt like too much work just to stay alive. Lyme depression is two-fold and a real mother fucker. First,  Lyme is a neurological disease—that means it’s a disease in your brain. That means that anxiety and depression are a SYMPTOM. Second, along with the depression and anxiety, you’re hit with a host of other symptoms. For me, I had extreme fatigue, insomnia, terrible physical pain, loss of appetite, hormone and thyroid dysfunction, and  brain fog…just to name a few. So, all of the things I’d generally use to fight depression like exercise, socializing, working hard, food, books, creative outlets, spontaneity,  or vacation also got taken off of the table and I was left isolated, broke, and painfully under slept. It’s common knowledge that the experience of being home sick with a cold or the flu can make someone a little batty. Now think about that experience on repeat for many weeks/ months/ years, add A LOT more symptoms, and then remember that you CANNOT sleep. Sound like hell? It is. I was in hell. As a person in the Lyme community, I hear it all. I hear about the deaths that are a direct result from Lyme. I hear about people getting cured. I hear about the seizures and the fainting and the permanent brain damage, and I hear about those whose lives will be forever better because they fought and prevailed. I hear the cases that are just “mild” but so disruptive. And I hear about the people who kill themselves—there are more than you’d like to believe. It doesn’t surprise me. It was so real for me. It’s very hard to want to live when there is a disease in your brain affecting how you think and when most of what was previously enjoyable about life gets hijacked. Lyme disease pushed me right to the edge. For some reason, I got willing to turn around and fight the wind, and LOVE is what pushed me along.

I had met depression earlier in life in more manageable doses. My attempts to harm myself in the past were half-assed: In high school, I tried to cut myself with a metal nail file —I quit as soon as I broke skin, I tried to be bulimic in middle school, but it took way too much energy to force myself to puke,  and, as a teenager, I took a lighter to my skin every once in a blue moon to make the mental anguish quiet down. Yes, I liked forcing my brain to redirect its attention to physical pain and off of my thoughts. But, in the end, I LOVED being alive. Yes, there were moments of serious darkness, but, most of the time,  I was excited about life.  With Lyme, I didn’t feel alive. Everything I loved about life felt like it was taken from me without my consent. There was no escape from the mental or the physical pain. It was prison.  I had *very sparingly* comforted myself  with the idea of suicide in my earlier life—I’d remind myself that if my depression or anxiety got bad enough, I always had an out, but it never got bad enough. It never lasted long enough…not until illness.

I had been sick for about ten months before I started losing hope. It was when I stopped sleeping in September of 2014 that I spun out of control. It went on night after night—adding up to 50 or 60 sleepless hours at a time. The relief came in very small doses—maybe 3 hours of sleep in a row—never a full nights sleep. I was desperate. My eyes burned, and I was driven to tears throughout each day. I took many variations of sleeping drugs—most didn’t work, and two of them made me more depressed. More emotional pain would cause less sleep which would cause more physical and emotional pain and on and on and on the cycle went.

One October day, I sat on the bottom step of my staircase trying to execute the simple task of putting my shoes on. Something that I used to do in less than a minute multiple times a day was now a terrifying, olympic- style task. For the gold, all I had to do was put my fucking shoes on. But it was so hard—I was so tired. I took a deep breath and slipped one foot in, methodically tied the laces and then paused. I took another deep breath and did the same on the other foot—the last bunny ear went through the hole, I pulled tight and PHEW, I just sat there. I couldn’t move, I had exhausted myself. The roaring sadness was called from my gut and rose up through my body and tears choked out, one after the other. I just needed to stand up and leave the house. Anger struck.  I was enraged with myself, “how the fuck is it possible that you can’t stand up. STAND UP. STAND UP.”  I wanted to drag myself across the floor by my ponytail and beat the living shit out of myself. And that thought devastated me. The desire to harm myself, the self-loathing I was feeling became so unmanageable. I wouldn’t get well if I kept it up.  I needed help.

That  Thursday night, I decided I had enough. No matter how tired I was, or how sick I was, I was going to go to show up at the Hollywood Mental Health Center at 7:30 am the next day—Friday. It’s where my insurance told me to go when I called hysterical.  I crawled out of bed with blood-shot eyes encased in dark circles and willed myself to get ready— put on a sweater and some shoes, grabbed my insurance card and just went. I hadn’t been in therapy for almost a year, and I certainly was not on any anti-depressant, I was free-balling, trying to be “strong,” and it obviously wasn’t working. It was a cold, foggy morning,  and I was  NOT drinking a coffee near a fireplace. I was shivering on a long, scattered line  with Hollywood’s homeless population.  I kept my head down and my nose tucked in my sweater because it smelled, and I was too sick to deal. The man in front of me kept hacking up phlegm and the guy behind me fluctuated between nodding out and jarring himself awake with the sound of his personal cocktail of snore and snot.  Goddamnit, this is not my shining moment, I thought. When I looked up to determine how much longer I’d have to wait, I fucking saw someone I knew. Not a friend—not yet— but an acquaintance I had met a couple of times through friends.  I was painfully ashamed—so ashamed that I considered leaving right then. I couldn’t be seen in this place. I was supposed to be the girl who had it together, but  I couldn’t justify leaving—it was too dangerous, my life depended on what came at the end of this stupid line. He, unfortunately, spotted me, and he came over to greet me like it was just some normal morning. I was so sick I felt like I was dreaming, and he was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, “Hey, are you ok?” he asked. I acted surprised, “hey, whoa, crazy running into you. I’m uhh. I’m OK, yeah. I’m actually just considering leaving.” Yeah, Jack, play it cool on the line at the Hollywood Mental Health Center lol. His face was compassionate, and  he told me—point blank— to stay. He was the familiarity I needed to get through that morning, and he was so kind to me.

I took a seat on a plastic orange chair in the waiting room with the rest of the early morning crazies, and, for some reason, I told my new friend what was happening in my head and in my life. I had nothing left to lose. I mean, how was I going to get around the fact that I was spotted at the Hollywood Mental Health Center at 8 am on a Friday morning—sober.  Only desperate people do shit like that. He listened intently and casually said, “I have a therapist and she takes your insurance, and I respect her a lot. She’s well educated and no joke. And you won’t have to do any of this nonsense.” A gift from the fucking angels, “Are you kidding me?” I said, “Insurance wouldn’t give me any therapist’s names. They just told me to come here.” “Oh yeah, I know,” he said with an eye roll, “her name is Claire. Call her, she’ll be good for you.”  I took her info and waited out my turn in the clinic because I was trying to cover my ass from all angles. If Claire didn’t work out, I needed something else in motion.

I called that day, and she got right back to me. It seemed like one of the first times since I had been sick that a medical professional got right back to me. And it saved my life. It was all of the hope I needed that day. That week. The first time I saw her, she promised that she would have my back—that even if insurance failed, we would be able to work something out. I’ve been seeing her twice a week, for free, for almost two years. Insurance never failed. Her office, her familiar face, her kindness, her insights, and just the simple consistency salvaged what was left of me.

I sat in Claire’s office last night crying about how far I’ve come, how lucky I feel just to have an appetite. How lucky I feel to be able to hold my head up. She wrapped up the session at minute 49 instead of 50 so we could “talk about a couple things.”  She said, “I don’t know if you noticed, but I’m pregnant.” I took a moment to congratulate myself on “being right,” because I had a suspicion she was pregnant and THEN promptly congratulated her. She spoke directly—her maternity leave will start in March, and she’s taking six months off.  She will no longer be working in the office where I see her—she will have a private practice and not be accepting insurance. She might do sliding scale with me if I need it, but, in the meantime, she will help me find someone new. BUMMER.

I started writing this a few days before I got the news and I’ve come to realize in that time just how much I credit her with keeping me alive/afloat during the last couple of years. The magic is this:  Just as I NEEDED her in the moment she came into my life and just as I needed her for the last two years, I am now perfectly capable and ready to let go of her. My need is not what it was. I AM alive. I AM afloat. I am so much healthier, in mind, body and spirit. She watched me fall completely apart and slowly reassemble the pieces—sometimes finding new, shinier pieces while throwing away the old ones. And how amazing that I feel ready to part with what we had. Yet again, it is proven to me that I CAN trust the Universe.

I think more today about how grateful I am to have some sense of myself back. I am often excited about life again. The days where I “just can’t imagine another day” are fewer…much fewer. Actually, they’re rare. But for a while there, I was just holding on and hoping it would pass reminding myself again and again that I was willing to do one more day. I was willing to do another hour or minute while I took care of myself and did the next right thing. I was willing to keep swimming and not let myself drown. And I was willing everyday until I got here:

Today I woke up at 6:30 am after about 7 hours of uninterrupted sleep, drank celery juice, drank some tea, read some spiritual stuff, and then STOOD IN LINE at the Chinese consulate to pick up my visa for an upcoming trip. And I was grateful for that whole hour-long wait—that line was glorious.

With Fun and Love,

Jackie

A Note for my Caretakers

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Dear Caretakers,

I imagine that this will be the first of many letters and many conversations between us. I’m starting here in a seemingly distant and formal way  because I’m not strong enough for the more intimate teary-eyed conversations right now. I’m also unsure of who needs to read this letter, and I want to give each and every one of you an opportunity to know that you are seen. As I ascend to wellness and the fog is slowly clearing, the vast impact my Lyme disease has had is coming into focus. I look around and I see many faces who have fought with me, and I have no idea what your experience has been, how hard it might have been for various reasons— I never asked. I’ve counted 20 of you who were very close to me over the last three years— 20 of you who I consider to be my main caretakers. 20 of you who were present for much of the suffering, many of the needles, too much of the heartbreak and all of the unthinkable need I was experiencing. But that leaves out maybe 200 people— or more— who donated, prayed, tracked my progress on Facebook, or worried about me. This letter is for all of you, whoever needs it: those of you who fought with me on an almost daily basis on the front lines, those of you who stayed back in the trenches gathering much needed supplies, and  those of you who prayed from your bedroom.  You were not my cheerleaders— you were my ARMY. I write every week about my story—my personal struggle with Lyme disease, stored trauma, and chronic illness. Yes, I often touch on how grateful I feel to have had the most compassionate army of people surrounding me, protecting me from all angles, but it’s come to my attention recently that you have been at war, too. This isn’t just my story—you’ve had your own journey watching someone you love suffer and fight for wellness. And no matter what part you played in this particular journey, your feelings— whether past, present, or future— are valid.

I can empathize—I’ve watched all members of my immediate family,  suffer for most of my life, and I’ve remained unable to do much of anything to help. While I have seen physical illness take hold of people, my family mainly suffers from addiction and mental illness—heartbreaking diseases that impact all surrounding loved ones. Addiction is called a “family disease” for a reason—the powerful current ripples out larger and larger often affecting generations of people whether they’re drinking OR NOT.  People suffering from diseases like these tend to be under the delusion that no one else is affected, that no one else could possibly be in the kind of pain they are in. But I can assure you, there’s PLENTY of suffering to go around. And it’s that type of thinking, that you’re not allowed to have feelings because you couldn’t possibly be suffering more, that prolongs the effects and keeps the current going strong. For a long time, I didn’t let myself really experience the hurt and abandonment I felt because I just assumed that my father suffered more than I did. He talked often and loudly about his own fucked up childhood and made it clear that my own was a cake walk compared to his. I have no idea if that’s true. But I watch people tormented by that voice all of the time—it says, “oh, but my father had it so much worse than me. He was abusive BECAUSE he was abused so I should just be grateful for what I got.” Or, “My mother was the one who suffered in her illness, I can’t possibly make that about me.” It seems like a very compassionate and empathetic voice but really its DNA is that of martyrdom and martyrdom is the tidal wave on the horizon preparing to wipe you out. IF that voice is active around my Lyme disease, if you are one of the 20— or one of the few hundred— and you have suffered through my illness let me just say your pain is valid, your fear is valid and whatever you experienced or begin experiencing is 100 percent valid. I’m not delusional—I’m not saying that Facebook friend #427 is wildly affected by my Lyme disease and needs to seek counseling. I’m just saying that whoever you are and however you’ve been affected—I hope that you have given/ are giving yourself an opportunity to feel it.

I can’t imagine  what it must have been like to be with me every single day through such horror, so many breakdowns, and so much illness. I have no idea what it was like for you to listen to me talk about my own impending death on repeat. Or what it was like for you to watch me go from excited about the full life I had in front of me to bed ridden and in tears every single day. I don’t know how it felt to lose your fun, reliable and available friend. I don’t know what it’s like to care for someone at such a young age, to not know if they’re going to get well and to be terrified to lose them. I don’t know what it was like to stick me with needles while I yelled out in pain, or  what it was like to leave my house when I so obviously didn’t want you to leave. Or how painful it might have been to hear me talk about how suicidal I was or how much I hated myself for being sick or how much I just “couldn’t do another single day in my body.” I imagine that, at moments, I may have felt safer in my own body than you felt watching me—I always held some sense of knowing that I was going to be ok (one day), and you might not have had that. Maybe you were scared to leave me alone, maybe you were scared to hang up the phone with me after I expressed so much pain. Maybe you’re scared that I’m going to abandon our friendship or relationship now that I don’t “need” you anymore. Maybe you’re scared that I’ll forget about you. Maybe this experience kicked up some old experience you’ve had with illness and death in the past or maybe it’s scared you…maybe now you know too much about the in’s and out’s of illness, fucked up doctors and how the medical system doesn’t EXACTLY have our back. And maybe you’re fucking mad at me. I don’t know. I know that I’m incredibly grateful for every single moment that you loaned your hearts to me, and I know that your love has altered me forever.

You people have inspired me every single day to be a better human. You have taught me through your own kind hearts and incredible efforts how to show up for the people I love. I am grateful for each and every thing you did for me. For you who held me day in and day out, always believed in me, and made me feel beautiful when my lips were purple and I was under 100 pounds. You who flew around the world with me to care for me while I got Ozone therapy. You who put me up in Florida and wheeled me around Disneyworld so I could have a day of magic in the midst of shit. You who sent me care packages, called, and texted endlessly. You who made me fundraisers and rubbed my body when it hurt. You who changed me into pajamas, who helped me get up stairs and hills, who brightened up my day with smoothies, food, and laughter. YOU are my fucking heroes.

I sincerely hope that you’ve gathered your own support through whatever journey you’re on—your own army—and that, if you haven’t, you begin to get help now if you need it. This is not just a message about my Lyme disease. It’s also a message to say that no one gets left out of life’s obstacles. Pain is pain—it’s relative and credible no matter what. And while I’m not particularly ready to counsel with you on how the past three years have potentially hurt you, I do want you to know that you are in my thoughts. I hope you know that I think of each of you everyday. That I know I couldn’t have gotten well without your endless support and love. I hope you know that I’m not going anywhere, and that now we get to do all of the fun things we’ve been planning for the last three years. I hope you know that every single hug, every text message, every phone call, and every time you held me while I sobbed, screamed and cried took me one step closer to health. And please know that as I heal, I imagine all of us healing together.

With Fun and Love,

Jackie