Inescapable Countdown
"It feels like my life is over, even though rationally I know that it’s not."
The doctors told me that once you hit two years of a constant migraine, it becomes nearly impossible to break.
I don’t know the truth in that statement, but all I know is the fear that it instilled. From the moment I was diagnosed, my body felt like an inescapable ticking time bomb.
I never imagined reaching two years. I told myself that I would do everything in my power to make sure that I didn’t. To make sure that I didn’t have to live the rest of my life in unfathomable pain.
2/4/24 is an eerie date for me. The repetition of the numbers existing alongside the countless times that I have had to repeat the date to doctors have permanently etched it into my long-term memory.
On the two-year migraine-aversary, I checked in with myself and tried to name what I was feeling. Only one thought came to mind:
“It feels like my life is over, even though rationally I know that it’s not.”
Underneath this thought is deep-rooted fear, despair, and hopelessness. It is hard to sit with, especially for a girl whose whole brand is hope, both on this blog and on a brand new tattoo on my body.
In the pain milestones I never saw myself living through, I have been reminding myself of two things during this one:
Despair and hopelessness are incredibly valid; they demand to be felt in order to be moved through. Pretending that they aren’t there will only cause them to grow.
Emotions are fleeting, which means that the overwhelm will pass. Despair, depression, joy, and excitement continue to come and go, some days louder than others. And even here, there is still life left to be lived.
My life didn’t end the day my pain began. It just shifted. Albeit in massive and painful ways, though it would be dishonest to say that nothing good has happened in the last two years.
I felt less excitement than years prior, but even here, I have experienced moments of internal growth, fulfillment, self-understanding, and compassion born from struggle. And despite it all, I have continued to find moments of joy alongside the pain.
I will continue settling into who I am, exploring new passions and hobbies, and finding ways to continue my career in a way that works with my health.
Disability doesn’t negate all that you have to offer. It just shifts the way that it happens.
Prompt: Reflect on something that you thought you would not make it through—this can be as simple as you want it to be.
What moments of good have existed alongside this, even briefly?
Feel free to answer in the comments, write a summary, or journal about this on your own!
Ooofff, this one hits hard.
I was told by my neurologist not to bother making any dietary changes in my disabled state.
I asked neurology what support was available after identifying it was my greatest need. I was told “there is none”.
Brutal as it was at the time, it meant little point pursuing an avenue where it was confirmed there was no hope and my number one need could not be met.
I set off on a path to calming neuro-inflammation in my body (which I had to study and research myself). Broke the chronic pain cycle (I was still left very much chronically unwell but just enough disabled space to learn how to rebalance my hormones which led to further cycles being broken).
There has been little to no interest in this from neurology.
Anyone I know who has reclaimed their health is frequently told this is not possible …. After they’ve done it. Which doesn’t make sense.
If there is no interest in the disease in the first place, doubled with no interest in reclaiming health, then from what place are we being told what is or isn’t possible? What belief system is this built upon?
And how do those beliefs align with our own?
This has been an area of great interest to me on this hideously misunderstood journey.
Two years was a significant marker for me as well…
Doctors told me that, ‘the most recovery from stroke happens in the first three months.’ Then it became ‘the first six months’, then ‘the first 12 months’ and ‘the first two years’. They’ve stopped saying things like that now, 3.5 years on.
Like you, there are times I feel despairing, even hopeless. But that’s not the end of the story.
Amidst it all there is real hope, deep joy. I’m comforted by Jesus‘s promise that it won’t be this way forever, that it will be another 40 to 50 years at most. Sometimes that time feels like an eternity, but it won’t be.
And in the wait, I can learn to live the life I have—a life that is much, much harder, but also much softer and deeper in ways I would not otherwise have experienced.
All the best as you continue to learn to live this imperfectly beautiful new reality of your own. 💜