Young and Gutless

euphemisms are a girls best friend

Tue, 01 May 2012 04:54:06 -0400

Today I went from being extraordinarily happy, to crying so hard I’m gasping for breath and can’t stop my nose from running. The trigger? A stupid movie about colon cancer. At the same time as feeling sorry for myself and proud of myself, I KNOW it could be so much worse. And I kind of hate it. I don’t want to put it into perspective, I want to mope and feel sorry for myself. I don’t want to be okay with being sick just because it could be worse.

But it’s bad enough. So this, is my sob story. Crohns disease might not be cancer, it’s not as cruel as Mndisease and I’m not going to die. But its my disease and it defines me and I hate it. What I find hardest, harder even than actually being sick is that crohns disease is about poo. There is an inescapable stigma attached with telling someone that you shit out a hole in your stomach, that you discovered you were sick because you shat blood until you were so tired you could barely walk. Instead, it becomes an ‘immune disorder’ that I discovered because I ‘lost weight’. I lost weight because I had dihoerrea for 2 years. Because I had to sit on a toilet and vomit into my lap, unable to make it between the toilet and the sink. I don’t show you my stomach because “I have a scar”. Actually, I walk around with a bag of faeces stickytaped to me. Wanna see it?

Sometimes I forget I hate it. Or it doesn’t seem that bad. Then I crack. Sorry for cracking.

24 and missing an intestine.

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 03:18:39 -0400

This blog, I don’t know what it is, a chance to vent. and maybe, someone will search “ostomy” like I did, and stumble across this - Not a blog that preaches that it’s not a big deal, or that tries to convince you that life goes on as normal. It doesn’t. And man it’s rough a lot of the time. So, this is me- someone still dealing with it in their own way. Some days, I’m so proud of myself for being. other days, I hate it so much my whole body is tense. it’s a rollercoaster.

good kids.

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 03:17:24 -0400

To date, I’ve told 12 friends about my ostomy. Not one of them judged, squirmed or abandoned me. I don’t give my friends enough credit. 8 girls. 4 boys. 2 boy boys. and I’ve spent so long being so scared of saying anything, to anyone. The first 3 people I told was only because something went wrong and I needed someone to take me to the hospital, the next two were also by necessity, and then all of a sudden it was like a floodgates opened. It was like, a test for myself and a test for my friends.

Life is so much easier once a friend knows. I no longer have to make excuses for going to the bathroom annoyingly frequently, or to worry about whether it’s getting too full to be inconspicuous. And to be honest, it’s opened up a whole world of new jokes.

Actually, I shouldn’t understate how hard it is. Three times I’ve been drunk, and once I just wrote him a letter before I left the country, so I never really had to confront him about it. I had always told him “I have body image issues, don’t touch my stomach” - it’s not fun always being on guard. I do regret that letter. I wish I’d been brave enough to say something in person before it was too late. Lessons.

It’s still a big deal. and they are a lot of friends I haven’t told. There’s a very fine line between wanting to share something that has really shaped who I am with my friends, and wanting to the “that girl with the bag” if it ever became common knowledge.

sometimes, perspective is invaluable.

Sun, 29 Apr 2012 02:54:40 -0400

sometimes, perspective is invaluable.

“It’s Gods way of telling you you can deal with anything”

Sat, 28 Apr 2012 21:01:07 -0400

On November 17 2005 I was released from hospital. 17 years old, weighing in at 35 kilos, wearing a bag. One month later, we were at the international airport, about to move country. Sitting in the departure lounge, I felt something warm on the side of my stomach and went to the bathroom to investigate. My bag had leaked. I was alone, without my supplies, in a cubicle, breaking down. At that moment in time, nothing else mattered. I was defined by my bag, I hated my bag, I hated myself, I hated God.