Thursday, September 13, 2012

From the Ground

This week is Invisible Illness Awareness Week. It is also the week I got diagnosed. It is also the week I began learning how to live all over again.
Over the past couple of days, I've been researching. I've researched my illnesses, and read inspirational stories of other people who go through the same battles every single day. One thing I watched, in a video blog, said this, "We all want to make a reason for this."
And I realized that was true. For both of my illnesses, I want to make a reason.
So much has gone on this week it's hard to believe it was even just a few days ago. I got diagnosed, after 3 years of waiting. I was forced to learn how to live again.
That's one of the things I didn't expect. I'd been sick for so long, I was already learning how to adjust, and I didn't think that getting a diagnosis would be that different.
It was.
It is learning to live all over again. It is finally having a label, and knowing that it is a part of me now. Before I could live in the maybe's... "Maybe it's not real, maybe it is all in my head, maybe I am crazy, maybe it's just the flu or something and it will pass, maybe it's mono, maybe..." And now I don't have that anymore. Now it is yes, the cold hard truth.
My life has changed already in ways I can't explain. For the most part I would like to say I'm doing ok, I think I'm doing ok. I'm doing the best I can with what I have been given, let's say that.
I think I've mostly been living in, "I need to make a reason for this."
So I've been throwing myself into raising awareness for both GSD and Dysautonomia (Don't get me wrong, I absolutely love raising awareness for these conditions.)
But at night there's nothing to distract you. There's no blog posts to write, no other bloggers blogs to check out, no school work that needs to be done. It's silent, and that's when I realize how much my life has changed.
That's when I lay in bed and can't sleep and just shake because I am overwhelmed by all these emotions rushing at me.
That's when I hear His voice, asking me what I am going to do. Am I going to be like Job, and praise Him from the ground where I have fallen? Am I going to trust Him, both when He gives and when He takes away? When I am learning how to live again, when I am forced to re-learn who I am and there's no hiding from the truth, is He enough for me?
At night, these questions peck at my mind.
I am going to make it through this. I want to praise Him from the ground, to lift my hands in worship when I can't even lift my body up off the bed. I want to say He is enough, even when everything I have has been stripped away from me. He is enough.

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