Having this disease makes me feel a lot of things.  Pain, frustration, resentment, and more often than I like to admit, I feel angry.  I get pissed off and upset about the fact that I can’t do the things I want to do, that my body doesn’t allow me to maintain a regular schedule (you can’t plan for flare ups), and that I am different from my peers in a way that they don’t understand.

All this anger can be overwhelming.  I can’t do the things that I want to do.  I get mad.  I see the things I can’t do and watch others do them with ease.  And I get mad.  When I get angry, more often then not, I just feel disappointed.

But here’s where I say something radical: I’m NOT going to tell you that I take a breath and feel better.  I’m NOT going to tell you that I know everything will be alright… Be angry.  Be fucking pissed.  You’re entitled.  You’re entitled to your emotions.  In fact, you need to experience them.

We’re taught to mask our anger.  We’re taught to feel guilty about it.  We’re told again and again that nothing good comes from anger.  And yet, sometimes it’s what you have.

Embrace it.  It’ll go away faster that.

I’m tired of hearing “anger isn’t serving you.” You hear that sort of stuff a lot in the yoga community especially. It honestly sounds pretty judgmental when you’re upset or angry with yourself / body.  You have to acknowledge uncomfortable emotions without allowing yourself to be overcome by them.

Anger showcases loud and clear when things are out of balance.  Instead of getting judgey about it, which only spirals into more negative self talk, observe the emotion.  Tell yourself–the same way you would tell a small child that’s scared, hurt and upset–that everything is going to be ok.  Remind yourself that you’re safe and that you have everything you need right now.  Even if it’s not ideal.

Everything’s going to be ok.

What’s the alternative?

It’s my birthday.  Yes, there is going to be much celebrating.  Yes, there will be cake, and yoga, and Ethiopian food and all the other things I love (including my fabulously supportive fella D).

However, in the back of my mind, I’m always concerned about what comes next.  I was diagnosed a little over four years ago — timing I’ll never forget because the doc told me that I’d need to be on meds that I wouldn’t be allowed to consume alcohol on… Not something you want to hear right before your 21st birthday.

In any case, what I’m really concerned about are these future kids I want to have.  I told myself I’d have them early; I set this year in time as an initial and slightly unrealistic benchmark for myself… I always wanted to have kids early.  And the RA was another reason to do that–as I get older, I suspect it’ll get harder for me to chase them around, get up in the middle of the night to tend to them, etc.   That would be the case for anyone, but I know there’s a good chance I’ll be in pain.

Trouble is that you can’t force children, and I’m not in a place to have babies yet.  So this birthday serves as an odd reminder of my own impermanence and internal clock.  It’s been a happy day so far and I know it’s going to be a good celebration. But I have to acknowledge that this is the first birthday that I’ve actually cried about.  I am afraid to get older, afraid to miss things because of this stupid disease.

I’ve never felt that fear before.  When I was younger I used to relish the thought of getting older, being on my own, taking care of myself.  Now, painfully aware of my own internal tick tocking, I know I’m living a good life.  I know I have everything I could ask for in my life.

And still, tick, tock, tick, tock…

Amongst elders, there’s a commonly understood, but usually unspoken, rule:  Don’t ask a lady her age.

It’s impolite.  It’s unprofessional.  And it makes people uncomfortable.  There are just way too many ways to get the answer “wrong.”

Although I write this blog anonymously, under a banner that clearly states that I’m in my twenties, I don’t like to talk about my age.   As it turns out, I’m more than a little defensive about it.

People look down on twenty-year-olds.  Frankly, when I look around at my peers, I tend to look down on them too.  Maybe it’s resentment, maybe it’s that my chronic situation (among other things) makes it harder for me to relate.   Whatever it is, I don’t appreciate getting lumped in with “young people.”  I don’t feel young.

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What brought this rant on?

The other day, after teaching a yoga class, one of the students made a comment to me about my age.  He said to me, “you’re really young.”

I had three near simultaneous reactions.  At first, I was indignant. I thought, what difference does my age make?  Can’t a 20-something have wisdom to share?

My second response was, “yup.” As I write this I find myself more in the indignant camp.  But at the time, I recognized that I could take it as a statement of truth–though from my current seat, it seems unlikely that’s how it was intended.

The third and final response was more of a non-response.  And this is how I handled the conversation with the student in the moment.  I sort of himmed and hah-ed until he left and I took a shower, and the day carried on.

I’m sure there’s a right response somewhere in the “isn’t it great that I found this healing practice at my age” variety.  But I realized later that the whole thing kind of ticked me off.

I’m angry and defensive.  I’ve been through more than a lot, and while I’m aware I’m not the only one, I want all this crap to mean something.  I want my family drama, my childhood trauma and my chronic status to make me a stronger, wiser person.  Sometimes it just makes me angry and resentful.

Yes, I’m twenty-something.   Please know that I’d prefer not to talk about it.  Ok?

Being the twenty-something that I am, I tend to like to think I can push through just about anything.  Teach five heated classes in a day?  No problem.  Cram a full day’s worth of work into a four hour span?  Got it covered.

Often times, it’s not desire that I lack.  It’s the actual energy.  The yoga makes me feel great; teaching makes me feel great; I even get excited about the consulting work that I do.  But sometimes I just don’t have it in me.

I like to imagine a world where I have the same amount of energy every day, a world where I wake up feel great, work, accomplish and get the rest I need to start the next day the same way.  Back in the real world, I’m fatigued.

It doesn’t always matter how much sleep I’ve gotten, how well I’ve been eating or how much I’ve been exercising.  As a chronic, it’s important to remember that occassionally you’re just tired.  Whether it feels like brain fog, delayed physical response times or more weight on your shoulders, don’t forget that fatigue is real.