A friend asked me awhile ago if I would rather be famous or rich. I responded that I’d rather just be well-liked. “But in order to be well-liked, don’t you have to be well-known?” he asked.

“Well, not necessarily. You can be well-liked by the few that know you,” I pointed out.

I started writing about being sick because I was scared. With so many emergency room visits, each one escalating in severity, I panicked. What if I didn’t make it through the next episode? Nobody had answers for me (and they still don’t). I wanted to leave something behind; I wanted people to know what had happened to me if they got curious. I needed to tell my story.

But now, the fear has settled and blogging so much about the situation feels almost embarrassing. When you wear your pain on your sleeve, does that cheapen the emotions? It may be a big part of my life, but I don’t want to let it overtake me.

Since I’ve been a bit more stable again lately and in the midst of winter break, I’ve had even more time to reflect and think. I’ve been trying to reexamine who I am and what I want, hence the recollection of an old conversation. Before all the chaos, I thought I had gotten to the point where I finally had everything laid out, but the thing about illness is that it strips you down to your very core, and I started floundering because I couldn’t remember anymore what my center consisted of.

These days, I often feel old, but I have to remember that I’m still just 21. I don’t want to watch life pass me by as the doctors half-heartedly work on a diagnosis. I may not be able to do as much as I used to, but I think it’s time to see just how much I’m capable of.

Hello 2008.