It’s March. It’s also Autoimmune Diseases Awareness Month. (Thanks AARDA.)
And me? I’ve had a little health, um, setback. And now I feel guilty. Again.
I feel guilty that some afternoons, even in my “remission,” I feel crushed by fatigue.
I feel guilty that there are days when, after promising my aging, bedridden mother that I’ll visit her in her nursing home 15 minutes away, I call to cancel out of exhaustion.
I feel guilty that I got sick in the first place.
I feel guilty that getting sick probably saved my soul because it’s forced me to reconsider my priorities.
I feel guilty that I’m not as sharp, quick, or physically lively as I used to be.
I feel guilty that my autoimmune disease wrecked my hormones and made a muddle of my brain.
I feel guilty that I talk about my disease too much. I mean, really, who cares?
I feel guilty that I am forgetful.
I feel guilty that I didn’t figure out that I was getting sick until it was *almost* too late and I went into thyroid storm.
I feel guilty that I cheated on my gluten-free diet in the beginning because I couldn’t fathom the difference it would make in my case.
I feel guilty that I’m alive when 100 years or more ago people like me went insane–or died.
I feel guilty that I’ve got really crummy DNA.
But I hope that someday I am able finally to move past the guilty entirely and get on with my life.