Everybody feels alone at some point in their lives, right?
Let's be honest, most people probably feel alone more times than we even imagine.
The funny thing is that we all feel as though we are alone in our feelings. We feel as though no one can understand. We sometimes even feel as though there is something wrong with us.
Unfortunately, this is human.
But what is it like when you feel alone in your circumstances, and in fact, you are?
For a long time, this is how I felt.
Living with a chronic, rare illness, not knowing anyone who feels what you feel every single day of your life, can be one of the loneliest places on earth.
Because it's not just in your head.
It is real.
You are alone.
No one does understand.
Although you may even try, you will most likely fail in your mission to try and make people understand. No one can be in your skin.
What you feel, you alone know, though you may try to explain, to describe, you will continue to be alone in your pain.
Before my diagnosis, my world was confusing, lonely and unbearably exasperating.
How could I explain my pain, when not even I understood it?
Waking every morning, I wondered why I continued to feel as though there was a cloud of haze surrounding my mind, and I was floating instead of feeling refreshed.
My muscles would feel heavy and (almost) painful as fought to put one foot in front of the other, making my way to the front door.
As I walked into work, my first task would be to place my usual, fake smile on my face, as though everything was perfectly fine!
When actuality, I could feel my eyelids becoming once again threateningly heavy with sleep. My mind close to swaying with dizziness as the fatigue began creeping in craftily.
As I sat on my desk I greeted my colleague who sat directly in front of me and turned on my computer to begin the painful task of filtering through my overwhelming number of emails, almost immediately feeling the panic rising.
I knew what would inevitably happen.
The fear, however, was in the terrifyingly mysterious when.
As I typed on my keypad, I began my daily routine, for the 1000th time trying to trick my brain.
"You feel wide awake. You feel fine! Today you will not fall asleep!"
But like most days, my stubborn brain refused to cooperate and fall into my trap.
And so it began.
Around 10 am, my gaze began to lose focus. I fixated on the screen, desperately struggling to hang on to my consciousness. The words on the computer started to lose all meaning. Although I knew I was no longer a functional being, my body pressed on, and I continued typing unwillingly. My brain no longer had any say in the matter.
God knows how long I was out.
Next thing I know, my eyes are open, focused. I'm conscious again. I look up seeing my colleague looking at me, suppressing laughter.
"What?" I ask her, knowing perfectly well exactly what she had witnessed but too embarrassed to address it.
"Nothing." She replies.
And this is how the next four years of my life played out. Every day different, yet the same.
Most people by now know the part of my story in which I speak about hiding my condition for years even post-diagnosis. I was ashamed. I felt embarrassed.
I had this untrue idea that my illness made me weaker somehow, and I'd fought so hard all my life to be seen as strong. I wasn't going to let it change the perceptions I'd worked so hard to create. I have no idea if I was even successful, but I liked to think I was...if only a little.
What most people don't know is that I cried for one hour the moment I clicked on the "enter" button - the command that shared my story to all those I hold dearest and even those that I don't.
Being the control freak I am, I hardly ever let people get too close. I learned this very early on, and I usually only need to make a mistake once to keep its lesson within me forever.
The few I have let in, I sometimes wish I hadn't if I'm truly honest. They have power over me.
Controlling my emotions is something I considered to be one of my greatest strengths. It's something that not many can do of course, yet I sometimes find myself slightly reminiscent of that 15-year-old me, the romantic daydreamer who fantasized about meeting her prince.
That girl has long died.
In her place is a stronger, slightly colder woman that now devotes her life to speaking to people all over the world and shouting her story at the top of her lungs in the hopes of empowering others to do the same.
Gone is the shy, insecure child who doubted whether she should even voice her opinion and more often than not, decided it was best to keep it to herself.
In her place is a loud and confident woman who tries her best to follow her music, no matter how it sounds to others.
I share this with you all because I hope it shows that chronic illness or not, even if it's not possible to understand, I hope we can at least try to accept ourselves as we are and those we love as they are. For better or worst.
Everyone has their pain, hardships, traumas, tales, stories...
You may even think you know their story, or at least who they are as a person, but I've learned this year that you seldom truly do.
What matters is that we try.
Whatever it may be that we need to try...let's try.
I want to thank everyone who continues to follow my story and support me. Taking time out to simply read, means more than anything else you could give me. So thank you whoever you are!