Today is my arthritis’ 3rd birthday. Instead of being sad we’ve decided to go for dinner to celebrate and make a happy day of it.
It was on this day in 2016 when I first realised something was very,very wrong. Even though my official diagnosis didn’t come through until August,this was *the* day that everything changed for me.
My arthritis isn’t just creaky joints.
My arthritis (as well as my meds) is destroying my joints. It’s destroying my bowel. It’s causing me to go deaf. It’s making my already poor eyesight worse. It’s deforming my digits. It’s taken my nails. It’s made my hair fall out. It gives me fatigue so debilitating I sometimes can’t even lift my head off a pillow without assistance. I’ve had needles injected straight into the joints. I’ve had bones removed and pins inserted. It causes me unimaginable pain and suffering. Physical and mental.
In the first few months after that initial pain,maybe even the first year,I honestly would rather have been dead then keep going with that pain.
I have had to deal with,and still bloody deal with on a daily basis,people and their stupid ignorant comments. People who equate my fatigue with just needing sleep. People who think I’m lazy because I often don’t do anything or sleep until noon. People who think that if I just did this or tried that I’d be fine because it worked for them. People who think that just because I was ok yesterday means I must be faking it all today.
I was told I’d never run again. I did.
I didn’t think I’d ever be able to walk down the aisle at my wedding. I’m going to.
I didn’t think my life was worth living. It is.
In the last three years I’ve learnt a lot about myself,and other people.
A lot of people are total dickheads.
A lot of people are amazingly supportive.
Jack is the best human being in the entire world. Molly the best cat baby. I have the best family.
And I’m an absolute legend. .
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.
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