The line--what not to say as someone with Lyme.

I've written quite a few posts about what not to say TO someone with Lyme. I haven't, however, ever touched on what not to say AS a person with Lyme. 

Because, sick or not, there's still a line. 

There's a line between being needy and knowing when you need to ask for help. There's a line between telling your story and putting it onto someone else's shoulders when they haven't asked. And there's a line between helpful and being annoying. 

So...

1. Don't introduce yourself and include the word Lyme. That isn't something you need to announce right off the bat. "Hi, I'm Leigh" is good. "Hi, I'm Leigh and I have Lyme" is not. 

2. Don't drop your story on someone before they ask. Wait until they ask. Not everyone cares. And even if they do care, not everyone knows how to react. It's easier for everyone involved, including yourself, if you wait until you're asked--if you're asked. If they never ask, take it as a good thing. A break from talking about it, and from thinking about it, can do you a lot of good. 

3. Don't make it seem like everything is bad when it isn't. Just because you're sick doesn't mean you have to always be unhappy. Don't hold back your laughter when something is funny. Don't stop smiling. It doesn't make you any less sick, and it doesn't make your struggle any less real. It's okay not to be okay, but it's also okay to be okay. 

4. But, along the same lines, don't say you're okay if you aren't. Take a break. Say you can't go somewhere. Don't say you're okay just because you think you're supposed to. Or because you think that's what people want to hear. You matter. And your truth matters. 

5. Don't try to make it seem like you have it harder than anyone else. Even if you have been sicker longer than someone else, don't make a point of letting them know that. Even if you have had more surgeries or more procedures than them, it's not a competition. Even if you can't do the things you want to do, there is probably something holding them back in their lives too. You have it how you have it. They have it how they have it. It's not your job to compare. 

When it comes down to it, being sick doesn't give you an excuse. Sure, it makes things different for you. 

But it doesn't make you better, sicker, or worse off than everyone else. 

Because, sick or not, there's still a line. 

This body.

I was looking in the mirror today while I was brushing my teeth and I realized something--I love this body. 

I love the head that has caused me everyday, unrelenting, ridiculous pain for the past almost 5 years. That same head is the place my hair--my favorite part of me--grows. And that is nothing I take for granted. Especially after my medicine tried to take that hair from me.

I love the teeth that are yellow from years of antibiotics, and all of the other poison I've put past them. Those same teeth are there when I smile. And I like to smile, smiling's my favorite. (If you read that in your buddy the elf voice, good work.)

I love the chest that is marked with scars from its days working as an entryway for too many medicines, the chest that holds a heart that doesn't always like to work as smoothly as it's supposed to. That same chest holds the heart that allows me to love, to love a lot of things, and to love hard. 

I love the hands that swell up, and hurt, and can't always bend to hold the things I need them to hold. Those same hands allow me to write these words that you're reading. And that makes me happier, and gives me more purpose, than you know. 

I love the legs that don't always hold me up well, the legs that don't always like to participate in the activities that I need them to. Those same legs allow me to get to doctors appointments on my own, they allow me to go for a drive when I need to clear my head, and they allow me to go out and do things when the rest of my body agrees. They keep me moving forward, literally and figuratively. 

I love the brain that forget words, and places, and names, and makes me feel like I'm waking around in a marshmallow. That same brain got me through college, and gave me a reason--a reason to push through this part of my life to get to where I want to be. And that same brain remembers a life before this, a life that I want back. 

I love the eyes that sometimes forget they have a job, the eyes that cause me pain and make the world a little harder to navigate when they aren't working properly. Those same eyes brought me the doctor that cares and believes in me more than any other doctor ever has. Those same eyes allow me to see the beauty in the world around me even when there is no beauty inside of my fight. (Plus they gave me cute glasses!)

I love the mouth that sometimes jumbles my words, and holds a tongue that I'm starting to think is even allergic to itself. That same mouth speaks the words that tell the people around me that I love them, tells the doctors what they need to know to help me, and helps me spread the word about the ugly things this disease can do to you. 

It may not look the way I want it to. It definitely doesn't look the way the world wants it to. It usually doesn't work the way it's supposed to. It hurts. It always hurts. But it's holding itself together. Somehow. Piece by piece. 

And it's mine.

It was mine before it became this way; it was mine before it was taken over. And when this battle is over, it will still be mine. It's been here all along (give or take a little bit of it). And it's seen absolutely everything I've been through. It's beat up, it's scarred, and it's worn down. 

But it's mine. 

And that's pretty cool if you ask me.