Welcome Crohn's Disease.

My body is traitorous bitch. You’d never know it simply by looking though.

I admit it, it’s only the past couple years that I’ve started really taking as good care of her as I should. And my motivations, in the beginning at least, were not of the noblest form – although the desire to keep off this persistent ten pounds that took up residency shortly after thirty doesn’t seem like the worst reason.

I changed my diet. I changed my activity level.  And as I got into better and better shape amazing things started happening. My energy level increased. My migraines decreased. I found sports activities and hobbies that I enjoyed, that I craved participation in. Not to mention that I’ve met some of the most amazing people who also keep me motivated. I’ve become comfortable in my own skin, not just psychologically, but physically. Comfortable with my body, knowing of the things that it can achieve.

As I approached my mid-thirties I was in the best physical shape of my life. Thirty-five was a scary age for me for a lot of reasons, but none of them remotely related to my physical health or well-being.

I should have known better.

The very day after my 35^th birthday I had an ‘emergency’ colonoscopy because of unexplained bleeding. Diagnosis Crohn’s-Colitis. Happy birthday to me from a chronic auto-immune disease that I am now learning to manage; something that will be a lifelong process.

I know, I know, I know. There are so many worse things that it could be. And my life is so full of so many other blessings. I feel petty, sometimes, even complaining.

Then I wake up the next morning, and I’m wracked with stomach pain so bad that it brings me to tears.  And I force myself out of bed, and sometimes I fall back over immediately and I all can do is curl up my knees and lay there for another 15 minutes to half hour until it lessens, somewhat.  In the past two weeks I’ve been curled up in my bed, and on my bathroom floor, more times than I’ve been able to keep track of.  It feels as if someone has their hands inside of my gut and is wringing my intestines around.  After I’ve managed to drag myself out of bed for the day I will get this feeling several more times.

But it’s worse in the mornings, SO, SO much worse, which means that usually by the time I’ve gotten myself together enough to venture out of my house I can put on a brave face.  I can live my life, for a few hours, as if that morning didn’t happen. Or at least as if it wasn’t quite that bad. And I can pretend that I actually believe that maybe tomorrow will better.  I can pretend that my new found fear of mornings isn’t one of the things keeping me up at nite, in addition  to the miraculous and evil prednisone. I can use my anger, and my fear to motivate me to not lay in bed and just become a sick person. Because, most of all, that alternative is what I refuse to allow my own traitorous cells to do to me.