Free of Gluten Full of Anger
This illness is chronic, and my attitude is ironic
BY GRACIE KIBORT WITH ART BY ALEX KOZAK
Sometimes young adulthood feels like a race. Against time. Against peers. Against your friends. Against yourself. Each individual brings a unique perspective with distinct advantages and hindrances, so their locations vary as the gun shoots a blank. Runners have their crutches, the best long-distance sneakers on the market, and that disgusting goo that runners always suck out of the tube. No one understands what lies upon the finish line, which differs slightly for each person. Everyone defines success differently but they’re proud. One by one, racers cross the finish line, collecting the medals earned and taking photos with loved ones beaming from ear to ear. Training has been strenuous, and they have a right to be proud of making it to the finish line, even if it didn’t take a second thought.
‘It could always be worse.’ Living with chronic illness is also like the race of young adulthood. Except, it’s race day, and no one told you when, where, who, or how you were supposed to finish it. And you woke up, muscles burning as if you already ran the race three times over yesterday. It is a constant struggle to keep up with even the most leisurely runners.
‘You were fine yesterday.’ Each Thursday afternoon, I aspire for a productive Friday. That night, In bed, I scan my mental to-do list. ‘Target run, pharmacy, gym, library before noon. Then coffee, lunch, and some work. Cook dinner, then assess social plans for the night.’ I’ll repeat, like clockwork. You’d think I’d learn.
‘Do you think she’s doing it for attention?’ I’m fortunate enough to have classless Fridays. Nonetheless, I wake up every Friday morning as achy as if yesterday I completed a marathon and then decided to walk in front of a bus and not go to sleep for three days. I’m a busy student and make sure I’m soaking up college all while checking the dreaded boxes of extracurricular activities, jobs, social life, relationships, adult responsibilities, and school. Each student faces their priorities and stressors, but when her body does not support her more than four days a week, problems arise. Fridays bring agony.
‘Well, you don’t look sick.’ I saw a tweet last week, ‘don’t let school get in the way of college.’ A familiar dread consumed me, a hard lump rose in my throat, and resentment for my condition set in. The time Friday night rolls around my legs swell, my head is throbbing, my back is aching, and my room is spinning. Even if I wanted to spend the night out gulping down poorly mixed drinks, it isn’t in my best interest. I scroll through socials bitterly, knowing even the people in my life think I’m boring. I feel bored, not just physically but mentally, knowing my friends continue to go out and spend their days at 21 as intended. I feel lame, worthless, and incredibly resentful for the cards dealt. I sometimes believe I aged beyond my years too quickly due to physical torment from within that many peers will not face for years to come.
‘You’re too young to be dealing with that. Just wait til you get older.’ I foolishly believed that a post-covid world would result in a more accessible one. Nonetheless, the world has returned to its rigid, outdated structure based on ableist norms. I was woefully incorrect. At the U, musty attendance policies quickly returned, forcing students to attend class when sick without a mask and virtual options to fall by the way side. We had a chance to better the system for those who need it and deliberately chose not to.
‘I frequently write articles for this publication reminiscent of one angrily shaking their first up at the sky. Yet each time, I uncover a speck of positivity as I sum up my piece. Young adulthood is like a race. It’s cutthroat, competitive, and often heartbreaking. But if lacing up my tennis shoes on the morning of the race is as far as I get before going back to bed, I’m proud.