My mother-in-law is one of those people. You know – the ones who will give away the end of a movie. From out of the blue she hits you with it - we’ll be talking about groceries, or a new pair of socks, and she’ll blurt out, “oh, and the Sixth Sense? Did you see it? Bruce Willis is actually dead!”
Thus, I spend a great deal of my time with my in laws with my hands over my ears, chanting “Lalalalala” at the top of my lungs, trying not to hear about James Franco’s arm, or whether Annette and Julianne get back together. Childish, yes, but effective.
This immature avoidance strategy of mine has rubbed off on the rest of my life. If I just ignore things, they’ll go away, right? If I don’t know about what happens in the end, then the end might not happen, right?
That’s what I think happened with my blog.
I think it all started when I kept finding articles about how people with psoriasis and psoriatic arthritis are more likely to have heart attacks.
Coupled with similar research about other co-morbidities – it seems we’re at risk for tons of awful stuff – it was all I could do to even turn on my computer. If I don’t read it, it’s not true, right? And if I don’t write about it, it’s really not true. Right? Right?
Also, gladly, I started feeling a lot better last year, especially last summer. Riding my bike, goofing with my kids, going on business trips. Sure, I had to go get an infusion every 5 weeks, and take a fistful of drugs every morning, but who cares? I have been deep in my fantasyland of “normal”. And writing about my disease makes it harder to live in fantasyland.
Lalalalala. I can’t hear you. Sometimes, it’s a lot easier to pretend to not be sick.
Two things have happened in the few months, however, that have made me miss writing, researching, and connecting the psoriatic arthritis dots.
First, I’m sick again. More than just a little sick - I’m bunches sick. My platelets are acting erratic… probably from the leflunomide I went on 6 months ago. My hands and feet are perpetually tingly and numb. I’m tired all the time (it’s taken me three days to write this blog post). I’m discouraged, and I hurt. I had a terrible flare this last month – I woke up for 10 days in tears because of the needles some hobgoblin decided to stick into most of my joints. And now I’m on prednisone and I’ve turned into a domestic terrorist. I’m doubting my medical care, I’m doubting myself – even worse, I’m doubting the future.
I’m just too tired to stick my fingers in my ears anymore, it turns out. I have no energy to holler.
But the second thing that happened was a gift. In the middle of all this pain and hurt, I got an email from a new reader. I thought nobody read this blog anymore, and then this lovely person wrote me an email, telling me how much he appreciated my writing – that he knew how I felt. He reminded me that I wasn’t alone.
To you, reader dude, I say thank you – I know you didn’t mean to, but you reached down a hand and pulled me out a pit. You were my blog's phoenix capsule.
When you cover your ears and yell really loud, you miss stuff, it turns out. You miss the positive research findings (more on that later). You miss the comrades in arms. You actually miss the hope.
Recently, I've really missed the hope.
So I’m trying to write again. I might succeed, I might not. But I’m gonna try. Wish me luck.
But please, somebody, warn me if my mother in law is coming for a visit. I haven't seen "The Fighter" yet.