What do you see?

I constantly wonder how I appear to others around me.  Does my small stature give any clue that I struggle to gain weight on a daily basis?  Does the green glimmer in my eyes reflect the tears, which always break free in spite of doing my best to repress them?  How well does my face hide the suffering and pain that has preyed upon my soul, eating away at my core from the inside out?

Moving to a new town six months ago, afforded me the opportunity to meet new people.  People that could see me independently of my disease, because they didn’t know I had one.  I had finally recovered enough from surgery, for people to assume I was in good health.  So I reluctantly took a huge chunk of my everyday reality, and hid it away where no one could see it.

Although my disease does not define me, I wear it like a cloak of shame.  In our society, disease represents weakness.  Incurable suffering makes others uncomfortable and distant.  Only when darkness envelopes the sky each night, do I allow the mask I keep plastered on to crumble into pieces.  Vulnerability is the last word I want to pop in other’s minds when they think of me.

The purpose of this blog was to finally break free of the diseased chains of entrapment.  To free my mind from the fears that kept it hostage.  I was compelled to share my experiences because of the grave impact they have had on my life.  I needed people to know that my outside reflection gave no indication to the reality my life consisted of behind closed doors. This blog is not a cry out for attention, sympathy, or sorrow; rather an educational foundation to spread awareness and maintain my sanity.  There is something so serene about putting your greatest fears and insecurities onto paper.  Putting a voice to the thoughts you keep locked down deep inside is exceptionally liberating, and strips away their terrorizing effects.    

With that said, I need to address an insecurity that is so prodigiously blown out of proportion in my mind.  The thing that saved my life is my greatest indignity.  I am so overwhelmingly consumed with anxiety when it comes to my ileostomy.  The shame and uncertainty radiate fire as they hide away behind my shirt.  It holds my guard up like a noose, making me numbingly aware to keep my defenses up at all times.

The burden of being misunderstood and rejected weighs heavily on my shoulders.  I would rather wear my scarlet A where everyone can see it, instead of it burning self-doubt underneath my clothes.  I am tired of carrying this cargo that holds me down like a titanium anchor.  This cargo is long overdue to be thrown fiercely until it shatters into millions of pieces.  This bag on my stomach that makes me question my self-worth every day, is responsible for breathing life back into my failing body.  This bag that stands out like a full moon in the night’s sky, against my naked frame, is the reason I am still here today.

How can I break others stigmas of colostomy bags, if I cannot overcome my own?  The courage of others has inspired me to come to terms with my reality.  I promise to work on accepting my scars and flaws until the doubt they cast, fades away into extinction.  Self-acceptance holds the key to free me from my own mental prison, and the burden of needing others to accept me.