By Rebecca Handler in The Mighty.
Let me begin by saying, this is a very incomplete story with no beginning and no ending. Perhaps it’s not even a story at all.
This is where I will start. In the days following getting sick with chronic fatigue syndrome, most of my memories have been lost, obscured by the thick fog that has occupied my brain space for three years now. I remember less of the “who, what, where” type of memories. (Where was I in the days that followed? Who was I with? Was the weather nice?) I remember more of the bodily feeling as I transitioned overnight from being a healthy teenager, to being indefinitely ill.
One memory that is seemingly insignificant always surfaces to the forefront of my mind when I think about the “beginning” to my story.
I’m 19 years old, and I am at a house party.
Every fibre of my being is screaming that something isn’t right – the crowd around me is moving too fast for my eyes to process, and the ground seems to be shifting underneath me. I have the uneasy sensation that I’m standing on what feels like a turbulent airplane, and lean against the wall for extra support. (To be clear, I am 100 percent sober.)
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