Essay On Chronic Tissue Syndrome

In 2012, I was nearing the end of my third year of being ill. I sat slumped in a wooden chair in my doctor’s office as he told me I needed to apply for disability. For years, persistent Lyme disease and myalgic encephalomyelitis (also known as “chronic fatigue syndrome”) altered every aspect of my once vibrant life—even leaving me housebound and bedridden for months at a time. Although I could barely sit, stand, or walk, I held onto the belief that I would one day get better. Hearing my doctor label me as “disabled” hit me like a sucker punch to the gut, and the gravity of my illness overwhelmed me. At that moment, I felt like a failure—incapable of helping myself or being helped.

There was no foreshadowing of the day these devastating illnesses would creep up on me. After all, by most people’s standards, I lived a healthy lifestyle—exercising regularly, eating organic foods, and getting plenty

I saw marriages being ripped apart by the strain of living with a spouse who was constantly unwell. I saw parents selling their beloved homes to pay for their child’s ongoing medical care. I witnessed patients making the difficult choice between buying food or necessary prescriptions. In my heart, I knew I could no longer stay silent about the widespread devastation many people with chronic illnesses endure. What I lacked in energy I could make up for in perseverance. Each time I shared my story with other patients, a visceral strength flourished inside of me, and the shame and embarrassment I had once felt began to recede. In the end, I came to understand it was more important to talk openly about my story to help others than it was to hide my head in shame. It took me awhile to get to that point, but I’ve finally come to terms with where I’m at in my life, and I’m not embarrassed to speak about