Competitive Victims & Are Lymies Narcissists?

First, I'd like to say thanks so much to everyone who saw me through the challenges I faced earlier this month, as described on my last blog entry. The depression and anxiety had reached a new maximum and were pushing me to the brink, but luckily I was able to diagnose a very hyper thyroid as the culprit. And now, I'm feeling a lot better after cutting my thyroid medication in half. Being so severely hyperthyroid is an out-of-control monster that tortures from the inside. It was horrendous. But it's better now. I'm so relieved.

Onto this entry now.

In high school, my best friend was a free-spirited, beautiful, rebellious, talented artist named Maisie (I've changed her name to protect her identity). 

Maisie and I would sneak off our elite, prep-school campus to smoke cigarettes and explore new places together. We were both creative romantics who lusted after handsome boys, chased random kittens, and sang in unison to the Fiona Apple songs that blared from my Toyota's speakers. We gave each other makeovers using glittery powders, styled each other's hair, and shared our sullen poetry with each other.

She was my platonic soul mate.

But our friendship was rife with drama from the start. In spite of our similarities, we had some rather blatant differences. For one, she was always drawn to the wrong men — drug-addicted, abusive, high-school dropouts, one after the other — as early as our teen years. And while I was able to succeed academically, she regularly struggled to arrive to school on time or turn in her homework, causing her to fall behind and not graduate with the rest of us in June 1999.

I had a hard time with her explosive, desk-kicking tantrums in classrooms; she had a hard time with my lack of complete, unconditional and accepting love and support of her.

After a series of fights, we finally stopped speaking when she failed to show up at my dorm for a planned weekend visit — standing me up after I had already blown up the air mattress I specifically purchased in preparation for her arrival.

I later heard that, ever since she had ballooned in size our senior year, she had been telling our mutual friends she despised how easy it was for me to stay skinny and couldn't wait until I got fat someday. Then it dawned on me: I suddenly realized she was — and had always been — deeply jealous of me.

It would be almost ten years before we would speak again. One day in 2008, out of the blue, she contacted me on Myspace. I was excited to renew our friendship and easily forgave the past, happily chatting about her new baby and eccentric life adventures. Hearing from her after all these years had brought me to tears. Happy tears.

But then I realized the true reason for her contacting me: she needed money and had exhausted all other options. I didn't have any money to give her — and incidentally, she still owed me $75 from high school (but I didn't see any need to remind her of that) — so her interest in renewing our friendship waned.

Fast forward about four years later — to about a month ago. After recently adding many old high school friends on Facebook (including Maisie), on this particular late summer day I was feeling distraught over several facets of my bleak condition — including the way the medical community treats my disease, my poor prognosis and recovery, and the fact that very few old friends have said anything compassionate to me regarding my condition even though they're almost all aware of it by now.

Yes, I go through periodic bouts of feeling sorry for myself — usually cyclically aligned with my menstrual cycle. Whether that's acceptable or not, the emotions are very real, and I occasionally express them on Facebook, in between my more common posts about kittens and the arts.

So, on that particular day, feeling pensive and unappeased in general, I posted the following lengthy status on my Facebook page (the lack of capitalization/syntax is just a personal stylistic quirk I apply to social media)—

"i wonder - if i had cancer/diabetes/AIDS, would people still invalidate my symptoms as stress or laziness? probably not. should we blame the common man for a lack of interest in this disease, or should we blame the medical establishment for misleading the public that all lyme disease is 'acute' - treatable with 2 weeks of antibiotics - not acknowledging its chronic state despite a plethora of scientific evidence that it exists? by no means do i let my disease define me, as noted by my scarce statuses about it: i prefer to focus on beautiful, exciting facets of my life. & when i have issues with lyme that i want to talk about, i go to the lyme boards, or i blog about it. never wanted my profile to be overrun with lyme talk. but maybe i should talk more about it on my profile because people need to start paying attention to this disease. it's a MAJOR problem in this country and largely ignored by doctors who prefer to invent diseases like 'fibromyalgia' (usually lyme). laymen need to be the ones to stand up and demand that it gets acknowledged, but for this movement to succeed, non-lymies also have to care enough. we don't have any national organizations behind us organizing 'walks' or fundraisers like other common diseases do. i blog about my experience with lyme to try to educate non-lymies about it, to help others with the disease know they are not alone, and to keep my old friends informed on my status. about 95% of its readers are lymies, as i've found very few of my old friends are interested in learning about lyme or keeping up with my daily struggles. that's fine. it has taken on a new purpose and i love that i am able to help lymies through blogging! but if i want to get the attention of non-lymies, posting on facebook about lyme might actually be more educational, albeit more annoying and ultimately prompting more unfriendings. i guess i will take that risk. my actions will always try to serve the greater good of humanity, whether seen as popular or not."

Yes, I'll admit that was kind of a rant and a call for attention both to myself and to Lyme disease.

I badly needed support that day, and luckily that status got some warm comments from like-minded warriors who knew all too well what I meant, as well as some non-Lymies who thanked me for having educated them on a disease about which they had previously known nothing. I guess that's one thing Facebook is excellent for — we all teach each other about new things all the time.

What I did not expect was Maisie's own status on her Facebook page — posted almost immediately after my own:

"You know what pisses me off? Passive aggressive, self-pitying people who are in denial about their own level of self-involvement. We all have problems. For instance, I am a single mother, living with my parents again, returning to finish my college education on a grant; I have no child support and I have an order of protection for my daughter against her father. And that doesn't even scratch the surface of medical or emotional issues. So what do I have to say? We all have problems. Get over it. As the Buddhists say: life is suffering. And as I say: it's what you do with the pain that counts."

I was saddened by her knee-jerk emotional reaction — her perception — of my status, rather than her taking the opportunity to read the words I actually wrote.

To take the opportunity to listen. To want to understand the enigma of a disease her old friend was experiencing. To want to learn about Lyme, about what I'm going through. To understand the medical politics, the controversy behind it. To educate herself for the sake of expanded knowledge. For the sake of learning something. Or for the sake of reconnecting with me.

If she had made an effort to get to know me beyond my status, she would have learned I'm hardly sitting around being miserable about my condition, and that I live my life to the fullest that I can.

Anyway, I do understand some people's lack of interest in listening or learning. The disinterest is rather common; but the troll-like passive aggressiveness launched at me was unfamiliar territory, and quite frankly, shocking. It left me with no choice but to delete her from my friends list. Not to mention how ironic I found it that she herself was criticizing passive aggressive people when that's exactly what she was doing in her status. Hmm.

And by the way, she is correct — we do all have problems. But invalidating another person's problems due to the perceived severity of one's own problems isn't fair. Why aren't Americans entitled to complain simply because there are children starving and living in slums in India? Every opinion and feeling is a valid one independent of the rest. We need not compare everything to something else. 

It really is sad that she had to make a competition out of our foibles. I would have been there to offer an ear if she had wanted to tell me about her struggles. I know she struggles with her own challenges surrounding raising a child on her own. My health is completely shot, with nearly all my organs malfunctioning, and yet I don't think I deserve any award for being a bigger victim.

The problem is, often people who've made a mess of their life want to be the bigger victim than their fellow perceived victims. They've quasi-programmed themselves into this mentality. They will always be the biggest victims of all.

And they absolutely despise when they're forced to acknowledge that their perceived competitors have a serious, legitimate disease on which to blame life's flops and missteps, when they themselves made messes of their lives without any good reason.

That may be snarky of me to say, but it's the truth — look at the people who criticize us most for our health struggles... aren't they almost always the ones who are miserable and underachieving? Their missteps are in competition with ours. Hence her knee-jerk reaction and outpouring of complaints in her status.

Yesterday it became clear just how much she despises me, when I was forced to actually "block" her — which I should have done when I unfriended her, but it hadn't occurred to me.

On this more recent incident, she had publicly announced on a mutual high school friend's page: "Ignore Leila. She is always cranky and self-absorbed" after she didn't agree with a comment I had made on said friend's page — which, by the way, had absolutely nothing to do with Maisie and only served her own desperate need to attack me in any way possible. I will never understand what fuels internet trolls or why any adult would behave in such a way. And I don't engage in childish attacks, so I just blocked her.

The truth is, I'm slightly concerned that, if she is as pathologically obsessed with tracking me down for the sole purpose of launching attacks as I think she might be, then I wouldn't be surprised if she somehow unearths this blog. Although I think it's highly unlikely she knows about it or reads it.

Letting her back into my life after all these years was a naive mistake on my part. I'll be more careful and discretionary in the future. We might idealize the notion that humans evolve into better people over their lives, but sadly, many stay the same or their worst qualities get worse. I wish it weren't so.

But enough about Maisie.

What is it about chronically ill people being labeled narcissists because our illnesses force us to focus inward? A few select individuals have labeled me as either a narcissist or self-absorbed. Is it because I blog? I majored in journalism in college and greatly enjoy writing — so of course I'm going to chronicle my experience, and nobody is forced to read it. Writing is pleasurable and therapeutic, and frankly, one of very few things I consider myself good at. Does that make me narcissistic?

As for the chronically ill in broader terms, you see, in order to get well, we have no choice but to be careful about our dietary choices, extracurricular activities, medications, and pretty much everything else we do... and we're often unable to be social when we're sick. This focus inward gets mistaken for self-centeredness.

There is a huge difference between being self-centered and being so sick that we have to follow a high-maintenance regimen. That's just the nature of the beast.

So, what about when we take our plight public on Facebook and Twitter? Do our educational weblinks about health, or our progress reports, or our emotional pleas when we're rushed to ER in the middle of the night make us narcissists? Let's compare ourselves to our fellow average users on Facebook and Twitter. Going off that logic, who isn't a narcissist these days?

Our modern day culture trains us to be narcissists by the very nature of social media. We all post photos of ourselves, our pets or our babies. We share what music we're listening to,  what we ate for dinner, or when we've arrived at the gym for a workout. My friends who are business owners all promote their businesses on Facebook and/or Twitter; no exceptions. We're all basically crying out for attention in a virtual mob desperate for some recognition.

People with Lyme disease are also often accused of being "obsessed with Lyme disease" (I know I have been.) That's just baloney. Only because there is so much misinformation circling the websphere about Lyme are we forced to research this incredibly complex disease on our own. And so what if we're "obsessed" with our disease? People are obsessed with makeup, fashion, their exes, sports, and many things around which their lives revolve.

One thing I can say with certainty about our "obsession with our sickness" is that this "obsession" fuels our drive to get better for every single one of us, because it keeps us trying new protocols we read about — in our desperate attempt to get betters. A lack of "obsession" breeds apathy, and once we reach the apathetic point, we've given up on even trying anymore.

I'd rather be obsessed and get well than ambivalent and stay sick.

As for constant negativity, believe me: Lymies are careful about how often we whine online. We hesitate every time we do it. We're painstakingly aware that we run the risk of being labeled "negative" if we so much as utter a word about a day of seizures or locked joints.

But considering what my friends with Lyme disease endure — from paralysis to migraines to food allergies to chronic fatigue to joint pain to seizures to tumors — all caused by the same disease — I'm pleasantly surprised to say we're actually not as negative as I would have expected. We're actually pretty darn optimistic, hopeful, and appreciative of life's simple pleasures, in spite of facing so many "diseases in one".

So it's hard to hear people speak ill of us. Whether we're accused of being whiney, self-absorbed, obsessed with being sick, or many of the other harsh judgments thrown at us, we must remind ourselves: these are just judgments. Plain and simple. These people would rather judge than understand.

Thank you for allowing me a place to write this. Thank you for letting me engage in some linguistic therapy, to share my story, and for your interest in reading it. Thank you for listening, and I hope my story helps others who've faced the same accusations to realize it's not you — it's them.

Imagine: Stand In My Shoes

I invite you, the reader, to take a moment to imagine the following scenario.

First, imagine that you are a thirty-year-old woman. This is the prime of your life. You are still young with dreams of starting a family.

Imagine you've been diagnosed with infectious and autoimmune diseases for which you've been in treatment for nearly two years — only to be sicker than ever.

When you began treatment, you were able to eat virtually anything you wanted without repercussions, but you no longer tolerate most foods. You cannot use most cosmetics. You cannot be around people wearing fragrance, or exposed to sunlight or fluorescent lights. Any such exposure sets off a range of symptoms from sudden nausea to migraines to extreme fatigue.

You even avoid cooking because your gas stove and oven produce a gas that makes you incredibly sick. You've been told you have something called "Multiple Chemical Sensitivities" which has no cure.

Imagine that several supplements which, up until recently, provided some relief, are suddenly having an opposite effect.

One such pill, Cymbalta, has now created a catch-22 situation whereby you have not only started having bad reactions to it but you also cannot quit taking it without suffering even greater reactions (due to withdrawal effects). Imagine that discussing this with your psychiatrist or other physicians only produces raised eyebrows and more questions.

Many other things including the blood thinner you are supposed to take — without which you face a risk of blood clots and strokes — are giving you allergic reactions.

Imagine you're no longer able to hold your bladder, and in spite of pricey tests and procedures — including having your narrow urethra dilated — there is nothing that can be done except to pee in your pants several times a day.

Now imagine trying to go to the store or visit a friend when you could spontaneously and uncontrollably urinate on yourself at any moment.

You cannot stand on your own two feet anymore because it triggers your postural ortho-tachycardia syndrome, making it necessary to be sitting or leaning against something at all times.

You can no longer use a cell phone because it causes migraines and electrostatic popping feelings in your brain within moments of its usage.

You've seen a number of the "best" doctors in the Bay Area who have done some excellent things for you — they've managed to successfully get rid of your parasites; they've also corrected your Hashimoto's thyroid disease with the use of thyroid supplementation.

But they've also used you as a guinea pig for many treatments without backed research. Supplements that are supposed to balance your gut, detoxify mold and staph overgrowth in your body, improve mood and energy, and modulate your immune system have all further damaged your health.

And insurance doesn't cover any of these doctors or medications, so you've spent tens of thousands of dollars out of your pocket.

Imagine that you've reduced your dosages of supplements to one-tenth of the normal dose after experiencing negative reactions, only to hear that you "must" take the full dose or else you won't recover.

Imagine your doctors, naturopaths, other practitioners and members of the Lyme community urging you to continue to take the things that are making you so sick, because "you have to get sicker before you get better."

You've even altered your lifestyle and your diet by eliminating all alcohol, gluten and dairy products but have experienced no relief. You've had chiropractic adjustments and energy healing which has produced excellent, transformative results which, sadly, only lasted a day — and then you returned to homeostasis.

You've stopped drinking tap water, stopped using non-stick pans, paid the Smart Meter removal fee, use earthing devices, and a lot more.

Your quality of sleep is poor, marred by vivid nightmares every night, and teeth grinding so severe that your dentist made you the strongest, most heavy-duty mouthguard available on the market. Your teeth grinding, completely out of your control, was so bad it caused damage to your jaw.

Imagine your nose runs every minute that you're awake. One day, when you were about twelve years old, you caught a cold — and it hasn't gone away. You've taken allergy pills, gotten allergy shots, had surgery to repair your sinuses, and still your nose drips like a faucet every day, no matter where you are or what you eat. You've been carrying tissues with you for eighteen years.

But the physical symptoms have nothing on the emotional ones. You're facing the worst depression and anxiety of your life — anxiety so gripping, so monstrous that it feels like you've been poisoned with stimulants, a sensation a hundred times worse than when you drink too much coffee.

You've chewed off your lips and the inside of your mouth. You've picked at your skin until it's covered with scabs. You can't sit still; your legs and toes must be in constant motion. You can be exhausted but it still takes two hours to fall asleep. Your thoughts race. You're impatient and constantly rushed. You feel bouts of rage and extreme anger. You feel like a monster has taken over your brain and only an exorcism can save you.

People say, "Just relax" as though you hadn't entertained that thought before. As though this is somehow within your control. As though meditation and visualization can get rid of this horrendous anxiety which you are convinced is biochemical and not psychological.

(Update 10/11: As per the anxiety, it turns out I had become extremely hyperthyroid. Hyper, not hypo. With Hashimoto's disease, the thyroid swings from hypo to hyper and requires constant monitoring. Focusing on the infectious side of my health meant that I had neglected to monitor my thyroid and grew too comfortable with (and trusting of) my daily thyroid supplement — a medication meant for hypothyroidism which essentially has been overdosing me for months, thereby making my thyroid hyper. Huge mistake. And it accounts for my feeling of manic, gut-wrenching anxiety, which — I knew — was not psychological but rather, purely biochemical. It's a horrific feeling. Thyroid should never be overlooked. Never. I blame myself for delaying appointments with my endocrinologist and taking my thyroid for granted. I have thyroid disease which can have a huge impact on my well-being. Huge. Anyway, it's good to solve at least a small piece of the puzzle — hopefully the worst part, but at least one part. Back to my hypothetical now.)

Imagine you are college-educated, with degrees in both journalism and graphic design, but that you can no longer work in your field because you cannot sit in a chair, stare at a monitor, or use a mouse for more than five minutes at a time without developing neck pain, eye pain and neuropathic pain in your hand — not to mention the extreme fatigue that makes an eight-hour work day impossible.

Imagine your favorite hobby to be songwriting, but that you just had to quit your band of seven years with two EPs under your belt because you can no longer perform.

Imagine your friends have stopped checking on you. While they used to send sweet one-line text messages to show they care, they don't do that anymore. They post photos on Facebook showing themselves having fun at parties that you used to be invited to. When you reach out to them, they suddenly act like your best friend. They use ungenuine, over-the-top endearment and offerings of help with groceries or transportation, but when you text them in moments of need, they're always busy. I have a word for people who are all talk and no action — fake friends.

So, okay. You can't work, you can't participate in your band anymore, and your friends are busy living their normal lives. You have zero communication with your mother or one of your siblings, and no family lives anywhere near you. You haven't had a boyfriend in three years. You are completely alone.

And it's your birthday in just a few days. But you have no plans because you know you won't feel up for doing anything, nor is it likely anyone will do anything surprising or fun for you.

But, imagine that in spite of all of this, you put on a brave face to the world — smiling wherever you go, photographing yourself at the beach or playing with your kitties — and you're doing such a good job of masking the pain that people are saying they are actually surprised to hear that you are not well.

For years you've resisted posting whiny Facebook statuses documenting your health. Day after day, when you pee in your pants, or have an hours-long episode of dry heaving, or have sharp pain in your spleen, you instead update your Facebook status with a funny anecdote about your cat — or art, or political humor or whatever might give off the impression that you are okay — because, God forbid you start to come across as a perpetual whiner.

Sometimes you turn your pain into humor, adding "LOL" to the rare symptomatic-themed status. Your freakish symptoms can be cause for amusement. But mostly you resist talking about them at all.

And now you're considering taking a different approach by no longer trying to cover it up. You're not going to put on the makeup, style your hair, smile for photos, or try to be funny or cute on Facebook. You're not going to say "I'm okay" when people ask how you are feeling. You're going to be honest.

What will result from this shift? Surely people will become annoyed. People will worry about your "depression". You won't be as likeable. Oh no! Less likeable? A life-long fear.

Honestly... what would you do if you were in this situation? What would you do if all of the above applied to you? 

If you talk about it, you're deemed a complainer. People think you dwell on being unwell. You're told to get out more, do more stuff, but how do you do that if you can't stand upright or be around scents or hold your bladder?

(Switching to first person now). I do not write all of this to complain or to get pity. Nor am I looking for attention. I am writing all of this to let you know where things currently stand and what I am enduring. This is reality. This is my tortured daily reality. Okay, I don't mind a little bit of sympathy. Not the ungenuine, over-the-top kind, but a sympathetic gesture from time to time is nice — just being honest here — even though that's not why I blog.

I also want everyone to know that I have completely ceased all my treatments for the time being. Completely. No more tiny doses of anything. I am done. I refuse to continue to live in this condition.

I believe that my supplements have blocked my methylation pathways so severely that my body's immune system response has become so hyperactive, so maxed out, so overworked, that I am having an immune response to everything. Taking an indefinite break may allow my immune response to normalize. I'll keep you posted.

The one thing that's been helping in extreme moments of despair (which have become daily episodes) is Benadryl. What's interesting about this is that Benadryl — while hard on the liver — is an anti-histamine, an anti-inflammatory, and an immune suppressant, further supporting my theories about what's going on inside of me. By virtue of its composition, it's helping me with allergic reactions, inflammation in my brain and organs, and temporarily calms my overactive immune system. It also relieves anxiety and helps me sleep. It's the wonder drug for now. But it's not a solution.

PTSD and Chasing Dreams

Lately I've been dealing with more stress and anxiety than usual — and my normal amount is plenty, so this is quite an unwelcome visitor.

I know I can attribute some of it to a mild case of PTSD ever since my house was broken into, since I've become hypervigilant about setting my home alarm, jumping at small noises, and otherwise living in a state of fear in my own home (home formerly being my safe zone away from the fears of being away from home).

For instance, what recently sounded like the snap of a close-range gunshot inside my house sent me running in full panic into my bathroom where I locked the door and lay in the bathtub for 20 minutes. I was convinced somebody had entered my house and shot at me, and since my home alarm wasn't set, I thought I was a dead woman. This sort of thing has happened on more than one occasion, so I'm definitely thinking I have PTSD.

Then there's the situation in Syria, where my dad's family lives. My cousins, aunts, and uncles who haven't already fled Syria are living like prisoners in their homes, and what has turned into a drawn-out crisis seems to have no end. I dream several nights a week that I am there, among the destruction, and wake up in a state of panic and despair.

And something very odd and disturbing has been happening in my own neighborhood. Somebody is killing kittens — the feral neighborhood kittens related to the seven I saved earlier this year — and dumping their bodies within a half mile of my house. I don't think this is directly related to my rescue efforts, but rather, a cruel person's solution to the feral cat problem in my neighborhood. For my health, I was trying to go on walks a couple times a week, but now I'm afraid I'll see another soaking, drowned kitten or dead kittens in a plastic baggy.

As an empath, a highly sensitive person, I'm finding it hard not to be affected by the aftermath of my break-in, the violence in Syria, and the animal abuse in my neighborhood. All the relaxation exercises in the world — i.e. meditation, deep breathing, visualization, herbs — aren't doing a thing to help, either. I guess it's my darn genetic mutations and brain parasites, happy to lend anxiety a hand.

But, at least, a couple weeks ago I got away from it all and went to check out Tennessee, which was a lot of fun, even though I was sicker than I hoped to be. You'll hear a lot of Lymies say that traveling is really hard for us, almost unbearable. Our bodies seem to crumble under the burden of flying and being in new places, since we're suddenly exposed to different environmental conditions such as changes in altitude, different drinking water, different air pollution, different humidity levels, different bedding, different airborne allergens like dust and mold, and especially a change in time zones which disrupts our sleep schedule and can be very detrimental. All of these factors do affect our already highly-unstable bodies which seem as though they are constantly waiting to crumble at the hands of, well, something.

As a natural explorer who is also extremely independent, I have taken many solo trips to new places in my lifetime, and they've always been challenging, albeit rewarding. Well, it was disconcerting (to say the least) — not to mention a reality check — to get the overwhelming sense that I just can't do things like this anymore. Not in my condition.

It was really, really hard. My body felt like it was being attacked by a million aliens. All my symptoms came back with a vengeance — insomnia, allergies, stomach aches, POTS (difficulty standing), fatigue, disorientation, sore muscles, inability to control my bladder (I had six urinary accidents in one day), spleen pain, liver pain, neck pain, hip pain, irritability, crying spells, the list goes on....

Halfway through my trip, I sat in my motel bed staring at the ceiling and thought, "What was I thinking flying across the country for a week of travel? How foolish of me."

On day four, an hour and a half spent in Chattanooga's Ruby Falls cave provided much relief from what was probably an inflammatory condition throughout my body. I entered the humid, mineral-rich cave for recreational purposes and came to discover an unanticipated side effect: feeling temporarily healed. It wasn't until after I left the cave with abundant energy, clear thinking, and less pain, that I learned about the healing benefits of caves. The minerals, negative ions, super clean air, grounding abilities, and lack of sun's fatiguing rays are some of the reasons the chronically ill love caves. Well what do you know!

But the very next day I foolishly approached 4,000 ft elevation in the Smoky Mountains and had my worst relapse yet. After my disastrous experience in Yosemite last year (not to mention Lake Tahoe and Cuzco, Peru, before that), wouldn't you think I'd learn to avoid high altitude? Apparently not. Add "Smoky Mountains" to that list as the fourth location that made me feel the worst I've ever felt — a culmination of the worst of my symptoms times five. The complete loss of control over my bladder was the worst my Lyme-induced interstitial cystitis has ever become. What a mess.

Ultimately, I was able to see Nashville, several small towns south of Nashville, Chattanooga, Knoxville, Gatlinburg and the Smokies, and several small towns between Knoxville and Nashville. Since I dipped into some of my "extra" time to recover in motels, I had to cancel the last leg of my trip — Memphis. So I never got to see Memphis. But that's OK, because I accomplished my mission of figuring out where I want to live.

While I couldn't see myself realistically living long-term or thriving in most of Tennessee, I did find West Knoxville to be everything I was looking for: green, a rural feeling in a suburban area, lots of amenities and conveniences, clean, modern, low population density, cheap cost of housing, lots of creeks and bodies of water, mild winters and summers (averaging 40 degrees and 80 degrees, respectively) and lastly, less cars on the road (and a local's observation that they don't have bumper-to-bumper traffic, even at 5 pm). It was an added bonus that people in Knox County aren't overwhelmingly conservative or Southern, nor overwhelmingly liberal, but rather, a blend of conservatives, liberals, Southerners, midwesterners, and East Coasters (since Knoxville is located in northeastern Tennessee).

Sometimes though, even when you make a list of your desires, you're just looking for a feeling that something is right. Take dating, for instance. Sometimes someone is perfect for you on paper, but in person there is no spark. Well, I'm happy to report, West Knoxville gave me the feeling I was looking for!

So Knox County it is. Destination: 2013.

But, let's be realistic. If I had as hard time as I did just traveling through a state for a week, am I being naive to think I can accomplish a move across the country? I'm not a college student with a few bags of stuff. I own a home, love my eclectic furniture and have no plans to sell it, have three cats who go wherever I go......... I have to buy a house (because I want to take advantage of the housing market, not to mention I don't believe in wasting money on renting), so I have to find a house, visit it in person, make an offer, sell my house, move all my stuff..........

Yes, I can do it. But will it be the hardest thing I've ever done? Yes. No question. None at all.

I'm not the type of person to let anything stop me from achieving a goal if my heart is set on it. I will move mountains to achieve goals. And yet, at some point, I have to be realistic, both reminding myself and those around me that my body is in a fragile condition and cannot be treated as just another capable thirty-year-old-body. This requires people to actually believe me over their own selfish assumptions, even after I tell them, for instance, that I cannot lift a 25-pound box or walk up two flights of stairs.

Everything always seems to go back to this. Always. Dealing with the general public, figuring out how to explain my disorder to people in a way they might understand, and doing so in a concise manner.

Sure, if someone has fifteen minutes, I can explain to them the cause and effect of my borreliosis and coinfections and parasites putting my body in a chronic inflammatory and autoimmune state, and how it's quite a feat to destroy my infections while simultaneously healing my malfunctioning organs, and how unpredictable each day can be with one bedridden day followed by a high energy day, and that my blood is thick and clotted, my mitochondria are all damaged, my hormones are way off (all as a result of Lyme), and that there is no sure-fire cure for late-stage Lyme disease, and that I'm highly reactive to molds and toxins in food and perfumes, and what a Herxheimer reaction is, and why we have to get sicker to get better...... but I can't explain all that to people who look at me funny for requesting an elevator when I'm too sick to take the stairs (or, if I still took public transportation — which thankfully I don't — requesting seats reserved for the disabled when it's standing room only), because my disease is invisible. I don't have tubes going into my nose or a port in my chest. I look, for all intensive purposes, healthy.

But somehow I am getting through life and continuing to be productive, even if things take a lot longer than they should. So I will find a way to get to Knoxville. I will uproot my life from this overrated, debt-ridden, broken Silicon Valley, California, and plant solid roots in underrated, affordable, promising Knox County. And that's where I'll start a family and live out my days.

While typing the last paragraph, one of my cats started playing with something which banged against the door, and even though I am well aware that my security system is set and nobody can possibly be inside my home, my heart ignored my brain and jumped. And even now as I write how I know well that I am perfectly safe, as my cat continues to make this noise against my door, I continue to feel adrenaline shooting through my body.