In those younger years, feeling all sorts of odd sensations under my skin, I assumed blue Smurfs, of a sort, were hard at work. I suppose, I accepted that my body could behave unusual, without fright. For such reason, receiving a diagnosis of Multiple Sclerosis at the age of sixteen had a catabolic effect on my psyche. To have survived as much trauma as I had, and then to learn of something as devastating as an incurable and unpredictable autoimmune disease—I clung to denial. If I hadn’t, 2005 would have been my last year of earthly residence. Instead, I pushed MS to the far fringes of my subconscious.
While in college, I’d broach the topic. Mostly to a friend, or a potential date. But I swiftly learned how unappealing illness could be. I thought of MS as a hindrance to my social viability; as a Negress in a sea of whiteness. Almost a decade later, and I couldn’t recall a meaningful exchange if I were bribed. As for my health, it takes precedence over all. I feel blessed to have an irrefutable reason to cater to my temple—unapologetically. I have my skin as a daily reminder of my commitment to a passionate and health oriented life-style.
Ironically, denial was my way of giving myself time and space to make sense of a thing that seemed senseless. Fortunately, in doing so, I spared myself a voyage through Big Pharma’s radioactive and immunosuppressant candy store. Within that time, I grew into a spiritual understanding that could withstand illness and find honey in what seemed so bitter.
When life gives you almonds, make milk.