Confessions of a Therapist With a Chronic Illness

Being diagnosed with a chronic illness came as a blow. Digesting news of Crohn's disease brought a flood of emotions like guilt, shame, grief, anger, and sadness. It was a challenge thrust upon me before I was prepared for it. I had never experienced anything so debilitating or life-altering.

It's been several years since I was diagnosed, and I've climbed some steep mountains while navigating this illness (and now a few others). I can offer my clients a little more guidance and compassion than I could before I got sick. Still, I don't have everything figured out. Every day is another experiment, and sometimes my experiments work, and sometimes they don't.

I remind my clients that we're working as a team, climbing our respective mountains. Their journey is theirs; mine is mine. I'm not telling them where to go - they decide that. I'm helping them get to their destination with the tools and skills I have learned through my training and experiences. Through this process, I've come to realize that my clients value knowing that they're not alone in their suffering. So, for that reason, I offer these confessions on behalf of anyone who is chronically ill or struggling in their body.

Before I got sick, I never imagined that illness would be part of my everyday life.

I always thought of getting sick as something unusual or temporary. Refusing to acknowledge that illness is a normal part of life doesn't make the illness disappear, so I've come to accept that this is my "normal."

I still get nervous when I see a new doctor.

While I'm excited at the possibilities that come with having fresh eyes on my health situation, I've seen enough dismissive and unhelpful providers to know that I might be disappointed.

I don't always know how to be sick.

I don't have a perfect diet. I don't get regular exercise. I sometimes overdo it. I sometimes skip routine preventative care and other annual exams. I don't follow clinical instructions faithfully. I sometimes ignore my body and pretend that I don't have a chronic illness.

I spend a lot of time alone, yet I rarely feel lonely or alone.

This is tough to admit because I can't always connect with the deep sense of loneliness and isolation my clients describe. Through personal experience, research, and working with clients, I've realized that loneliness is about being disconnected from our SELVES. It's not about feeling disconnected from others. When I am with my true Self, there's no room for negativity or distressing stories about what it might mean to be alone. I don't frantically search for something outside of myself (ex: another person) to numb my pain or make me feel better. Instead, I connect with the place within that feels like coming home.

When I have a cold or the flu, I prefer to be by myself.

I could have no groceries in the house, and I still won't let you bring me soup. This gets tricky when I really need help.

I lost my shit when I was diagnosed.

During the "crisis phase" of my illness, I felt totally helpless, like I was to blame, had frightening thoughts, and wanted to hide in a cave.

I've been in remission since 2013, and I still feel like one wrong move will send me right into a flare.

It's funny what my mind has decided will send me into a flare, and it's never rational. My big triggers are accidentally eating gluten, getting too stressed, intensely exercising, and not taking my supplements consistently.

I still wait for the shoe to drop.

Every time I invest in something I'm really excited about, like a hobby, sport, or business idea, I immediately worry if another health crisis will destroy it. I'm still programmed to think that my illness (or a new one) will rip the rug out from under me the second I've invested in something that makes me happy.

I am relieved when someone cancels plans.

I love spending time with my friends and family, AND socializing is a big energy drainer. I often feel relieved when someone cancels, not because I didn't want to see them, but because I get to keep the energy I had rationed.

I resent people who eat like shit, have tons of stress, and don't get sick.

When I started getting symptoms, I was eating well, doing CrossFit, had just started my private practice, and was generally happy and hopeful. So when I was finally diagnosed, my mind could not stop trying to figure out what I had done. Was I too stressed? Is it genetic? Was it processed food I ate in college? Did I get a virus? What is unresolved trauma? When I see people destroying their bodies and not getting sick, I hear my mind saying, "What the actual fuck?!"

The financial burden of health care costs scared the bejeebers out of me.

When I got sick and racked up thousands of dollars in medical bills, I got reeeeeeal scared. I mean the gut-wrenching-intensely-panicky flavor of terrified. The thought of not being able to pay my bills (or worse - becoming homeless!) was more stressful than the illness itself.

I hated being thin.

Not only did I have an invisible illness, but as a result of my symptoms, I lost a lot of weight. So all people saw was a size two, blonde-haired, green-eyed woman. I liked it for about a minute; I mean, clothes fit nicely and I could cross my legs two times over.

But because society equates thinness and beauty with health, nobody knew I was suffering. I also received more attention, privilege, and respect because I fit into society's view of what "pretty" is. When I gained the weight back, all of that went away. Thin or fat, people are going to create stories about you. I suppose I'd rather my outsides more accurately reflect my insides: Happy and well-fed!

I feel embarrassed about all the years I bonded with women over diet talk.

After my body went through hell and back, the thought of putting it (and my mind) through any kind of diet or restrictive pattern just didn't sit well with me. I did some work to reclaim my body as my own, not as an ornament for other people to gawk at. I want to have conversations with women about who they are and what they do - not what they look like.

I watch a lot of TV. And most of it is shit.

Every year I say I'm going to read more, write more, or do more creative work, but at the end of a long day counseling people, the fastest track to "off" mode is a mindless TV movie or show.

Sometimes I feel not sick enough to be a therapist specializing in helping people with chronic illness.

Many of my clients are far sicker than I ever was or have been ill for much longer than me. I worry that the further I get from being really sick, the less I'll be able to offer. I know there isn't much truth to this statement, but it still haunts me.