I’m sick. I think I’m getting sicker. There’s worse pain. The horrible gas is back. This is how it started when it got really bad at Sheppard Pratt. My team leader and my therapist got together and pressured me into letting my team leader call the GI doc’s office. I feel predictably terrible about it–needy and histrionic and hypochondriac and guilty.
When the NP called me back, she didn’t sound concerned. That made me feel worse. It shouldn’t–she’s sending me for labs and X-rays tomorrow, so obviously she’s not unconcerned. But she said something to the effect of, “This is just part of having ulcerative colitis.”
So, what, it doesn’t get any better than this? This isn’t living. I’m functioning, but only just. I am 27 years old, and I can’t live like this for the rest of my life. I missed the March on Washington because I knew I couldn’t be somewhere that I didn’t always have a bathroom immediately available. I just got a prestigious fellowship, and I keep worrying that people won’t be able to see me as a professional if I can’t stop farting. It sounds like a gag from a man-child comedy, but it’s not funny when it’s real life and you can’t control it.
Things are happening to my body that I have no control over. It’s a trauma flashback, but it sucks on its own merits too. It more than sucks, but I don’t have stronger words for it. I can’t even stop crying.