The Beginning of the End

My mother has said to me many times, "I wish I had a Magic Wand that could make you better". I used to wish for that too, but I realized that waiving my wand around would cure the result, not the problem. I would never figure out WHY I was sick, or WHY I hurt all the time. I'd never know how to solve the problem or help others to solve theirs. I'd miss out on the human condition, and therefore become less human, and less humane, if I had the magic cure I wished for my whole life.

Now, when I say "my whole life" I'm talking about my life since I was about 12. I will be 24 for another week, at which point I've spent 1/8 of my life span, consecutively, (assuming I live to 100) sick. This is not ok. Not for me. Not for you. Not for anyone, anywhere, ever. So, since it's not ok, who is to blame? Whose fault is it that I feel broken, miserable, and sometimes hopeless?

MINE

You heard me right, no propaganda, no pointing fingers, no passing the buck. I did this to myself, often accidental, but still frequently on purpose. Did I wake up one day and decide I wanted to be ill so people would feel bad/take pity/worry/pamper me? No. However, when I started to feel ill, I didn't do anything about it at first. At 12, I assumed I would "grow out of it", that eventually my body would figure itself out and I'd go back to normal. It didn't. Now, as a kid, it's not unreasonable to think/want/expect such things. No one told me my dreams were unrealistic, because they weren't. No one said I had to "just deal with it", because I don't. No one does.