Weeks ago, I marked the fifth year since I felt that strange push back, the crackled snap of separation from who I thought I was and that person who was doing things I never said she could. I took quiet note of this anniversary, the day lupus-induced inflammation took over my brain. I was going to acknowledge it here the way we all do when we find ourselves traveling the cycle of time, pausing to remember the pebble stones we lay down along the way. How far have I come? What have I learned? What will I do now? But I didn’t answer those questions, I didn’t want to. That day, it was enough to say, “yes, that happened.”
Today, an entire month later, I found myself belatedly marking the occasion with a love note to none other than my fascinating, enduring brain:
I still don’t fully understand what happened to you and I’ve come to accept that I never will. I don’t know how you managed to keep me, the real me, conscious amidst the chaos and for the times I was not, I want to thank you for protecting me and making me forget the worst of what “she” did. Thank you for being resilient, for allowing me to not only return to myself, but to uncover the parts I’d long forgotten. I’m sorry for leaving you vulnerable through my denial and meager self-care. I promise I will never do that again.
You are amazing and I’ve been grateful, so very grateful, every one of the last 1,825 days.