I can explicitly remember staring at my boney, frail self in the mirror hanging on the wall at the doctor's office one year ago. "Good Lord," I thought. "I look like I belong in a third world country. Is this really who I am now?" Having just stepped on the scale moments before, my 108 lb. body couldn't process the shocking number. I hadn't been that size since I was 13.
It's been a year since that first visit when I expected to walk away with a prescription for Zoloft, and instead left with a bandaid covering a sore arm. To say my life has changed since then, or even to say it's improved, is too much of an understatement. I literally can't think of a word to tell you how much better every single aspect of my life is now than it was 365 days ago.
But even with that - even with newfound health and happiness - it's a year later and I'm still suffering the consequences of this
On Friday I will go in for my second tissue graft for my receding gum line. 18 months ago when I had this procedure they threw an expensive electric toothbrush at me and told me lighten up on my pearly whites. Now I'm walking into the operating chair knowing that an aggressive bedtime routine likely had nothing to do with it. This has to be related to my many years of malnutrition from celiac disease. Google keeps confirming my suspicions (we're going on search number 23 now…)
The pain I'm about to endure is just one example of how I'm still putting my body back together. And I'm not trying to cry wolf here - I understand that there are plenty of people who have plenty of issues way worse than mine. But it makes me wonder; will I ever be healed? Will I ever feel 100% healthy? Will I ever be done repairing the damage? I fear the unknown consequences that are waiting for me in the future. What if my reproductive system has been damaged? What if I get osteoporosis? Is my nervous system normal, and will it ever be?
I guess I could sit here and obsess over the unknown for another hour, or I could go do something productive with my annoyingly irreparable lifestyle. Like revise a recipe for the third time in hopes that it will finally be perfect enough to share. Or publish this blog post and hope that someone will feel heard by it.
Either way, I'm scared for my body's future. But I've got to be okay admitting that. The real point is that it's scarier to think about what might have happen if I had gone any longer without the proper diagnosis.
Which brings me full circle.
At least I know. At least I've stopped the damage. At least I'm not like I was a year ago.
So that's why I'll stay positive. Even if this is forever.