Kites, Barney, and Crap

When I was two years old, I was obsessed with Barney. I watched Barney for what seemed like hours everyday, listened to a Barney album on repeat, had my Barney stuffed animal that I couldn't sleep without, a Barney pillow, and a Barney nightlight. For my birthday, someone bought me a Barney kite. I was ecstatic. I was also a daddy's girl (still am!), and the first thing we did was go to a giant field so we could fly the kite. I remember watching with glee when my dad got it high in the sky. He handed me the string so I could fly it myself. I don't know why I let go of the string... maybe I was scared because the winds were so strong- but the next thing I knew, my kite was not tethered down by my two-year-old body, but was flying away into a blue yonder. I yelled at my dad to go get it. He ran as fast as he could, but the Barney kite was never recovered. I refused to speak to him for days. In my mind, it was his fault that the kite was lost, because he couldn't recover it. I forgave him for losing the kite when I was about thirteen and the kite nightmares of my kite lost in outer space stopped.

BEST FWIENDS FOWEVEW!

I am a grudge holder. But I hold the deepest, most resentful, spiteful, hateful and raging grudges against myself, and my IBD.
I racked my parents up a huge medical bill when I spent a month in the hospital. I had to drop out of college because I wasn't well. As a child and teenager, I rarely did the dishes because after every meal I felt sick and had to use the bathroom. My little sister always ended up doing the dishes for me while I would sit cramped on the toilet. I hate that I couldn't help her more. I hate that I  lied to my family about my illness, and telling them that I was fine. I hate that my dad was in Costa Rica and had no idea I was sick until he got home to find me in the hospital, bleeding and on narcotics. I hate that I went so berserk with cutting in my teens, that my dad also has to fight to get me any medical attention when IBD is still thought of as a psychosomatic complaint and I have a stack of medical records stating a lengthy list of mental health problems and treatment stays. I hate myself when I let my friends down and say I'm too sick to do something with them, or have to cancel. I hate myself. I hate my body. I hate being young in a chronically ill jail cell. I hate inflammatory bowel disease.
I'm so angry at my body. I'm angry at every single one of my aching joints. I am angry at my immune system for thinking I'm the enemy. I am angry at my guts for not letting me eat the foods I want to and for hurting all the time. It's embarrassing that my brain is always in a fog from not feeling well- I hate not living up to my true potential. I am angry that my face is always so pale from anemia. I am beyond enraged that I have so little energy for the life I want to live. I envy the college students who are able to pull all-nighters, party, study, work, and live the life I so badly wanted. If my high school dreams hadn't been interrupted by IBD, I'd be wrapping up my junior year of college, speak Spanish and German fluently, and be well on my way to becoming a fantastic high school teacher. I might even be settled down and planning to have a family soon. But nope. That's not what IBD has let me do!
 This disease has forced me to go on medications that changed my personality while I was on them and therefore caused unfortunate relationship damage. I am deeply ashamed that I once broke up with Holden twice in a short span, and was then called "one of those couples" by someone who claimed to know "exactly" what I was going through, but has proceeded to stick both of their feet in their big mouth many times in the short three years I've known them. As if I didn't feel bad enough, this someone had to rub it in my face. I started crying when I read that comment on Facebook. I'm on non-speaking terms with several people, some of whom are family members, because of callous remarks they made about my diagnosis, or because of stupid things I said when I was on prednisone. I can't begin to describe how awful that feels.
But I have to let go. I realized last year that holding a grudge isn't healthy for the body, let alone the soul. I realized that all that hate I kept bottled up inside me wasn't letting me heal any faster. And really, healing faster is the goal. If I continue to do things that make me sicker, including holding grudges, I only become more angry. By being angry, I am wasting precious energy that I could use to get better. It's a vicious cycle. Last year, I started letting go of grudges, one by one. I whole-heartedly forgave people who did the inexcusable. That doesn't mean that I'm going to be friends with every single person who wronged me in my past- some of them haven't changed and there's no sense in giving them the opportunity to hurt me again. What it does mean is that I have let go of the hurt and choose to move on with my life. I have never felt freer.
But when it comes to situations that are related to IBD and IBD alone, it gets tougher. I get really angry at what IBD has made me go through. I cry to Holden and ask him why I have to be the sick person. I get angry at myself, at God, society, everyone healthy. I am a law abiding citizen. I pay my taxes, I pay my rent, I work hard. I struggle to maintain remission of an incurable disease. Why do I have to be the one who's living in a sick body? Why can't a human trafficker, a child molester, or a dictator be the one who is punished with being this sick? Why am I being punished when I'm just a regular Jane trying to find her footing? Why do I have to deal with the comments that well-intentioned but thoughtless people make about me not looking sick, or that they once had a stomach flu? Why am I sick? What did I do to deserve this?

Despite many attempts to lick the boogers out of his own nose, I actually do love this weirdo. He's an awesome listener, makes great pancakes when I'm feeling down, and gives really good hugs.

You can go to your rabbi, priest, pastor, teacher, guru, parent, whomever, and no one will have an answer. Unfair things happen in the world. Good people get cancer, suffer, and die. Good, hard working single parents get laid off. Children starve. People are beaten, raped, abused. Nothing in this world makes sense. Our world is chaos. I certainly don't know why horrible things have to happen. But I look at all the ugliness, and I see beauty, too. For as every bit horrendous as life is, it is also just as grand, simple, and heavenly. I can either lie down and give up when life beats me, or I can stand tall and make something beautiful out of something ugly. I can either let this disease beat me down and throw my heart and soul into an angry pit of loathing and hatred, or I can push myself to be a braver, stonger, better, kinder, and more understanding person because of it. I can take this thing that I never wanted, and I can learn and grow so much faster. Ha! Take that curve-ball, IBD!