I am mostly surrounded by people who do not have health issues. To some of them, I’m a strange creature who rarely moans or is rarely miserable despite, it seems to them, living a life they’d be so unhappy with.
Should I not be happy with my lot?
Should I not be happy that after not even daring to dream it, I was able to move out of my parents care?
Should I not be happy that I am no longer confined to a makeshift bed in my parents dining room?
Should I not be happy that I found a partner who has promised to see me for who I truly am and not just someone restricted by ever-present illness?
Should I not be happy that there are a community of people who live inside my computer who I meet up with most days who offer me comfort and understanding?
Should I not be happy that those few friends who have stuck by me have moulded our friendship around my health to make it work?
Should I not be happy that a simple idea I had to raise money and awareness of M.E. has now raised over £40,000 for charity?
Should I not be happy with any of that?
Should I be miserable because I am chronically ill? Sometimes I am; very much so. But mostly I’m not. And I’m not sorry if that confuses you.
While I don’t like or enjoy being and feeling so darn unwell every day, there is absolutely nothing I can do about it. It just is what it is. I have so little energy each day and I feel incredibly lucky that I rarely spend that energy on wishing my life were different.
As ever, these are my views on my own life with M.E. They are a result of my own circumstances, personality, and privileges.
M.E. myself and I 