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Ravi D’avior Fait Votre Connaissance as They Say in France

People do a lot of talking about doors. How they open and close and how they end up being the provider of direction during difficult times.

But, you see. Doors, they have to be opened.

There are no ghosts here.

And just because you choose to walk away from doors that don’t seem to be serving you the best at the moment, doesn’t mean that you close the door. It certainly doesn’t mean that you’ve got to lock it up and throw away the key.

Please, don’t throw away the key. 

But, please. Stop waiting for the right door to open for you.

Dance down the hall and open that door yourself.

Hell, why just open one?

And hey, maybe you haven’t opened the door yet for a reason. So what’s stopping you from decorating the walls with the journey you’ve already been on?

It feels like that’s what I’ve been doing. I’ve been decorating these pages with a bunch of words.

Some made you smile. Some made you cry. Some made you worry. Hopefully some made you understand differently.

But, at the end of the day, they’re just the pretty decor that defined a part of my life, and it’s time to for some demolition.

What started with an idea grew into something so much more powerful.

I remember the first time I really connected to someone because of this.

My piece on sensory overload had just been published. My goal was to break it all down, literally sense by sense, to understand for my upcoming doctors appointment the words that fit best in describing how every sense was impacted and how some days those side effects made everything worse than the pain. 

Then this mom commented. She had a 7 year old son who suffered from migraine and she read it aloud to him. He cried because I described what he was going through. She cried because she had finally found a place where she could understand all her son was facing. She thanked me for taking the time to write it all out in such detail, because as a caregiver she really needed that type of understanding. 

And then there I was. Crying. Because some mom, somewhere, read my words and her connection with her son would forever be changed.

And so, I kept writing. I kept looking for anomalies. Places where my world and my experience weren’t lining up with those around me.

And so, I joined on with The Mighty. I wrote and I wrote and I wrote.

People liked what I had to say, and it wasn’t just my mom saying so because she’s my mom. It was people from all of the world, connecting with me. Sharing their stories. Describing how I’d summed up exactly what they couldn’t put into words themselves.

I started pushing myself to create content, not just relay my experience. I started conversation with hundreds of people regarding advice and experience and trying to find some common ground between the chronically ill and the “able-bodied” and it was a tremendous experience.

It showed me that everyone has a story. Any one of you could have sat down and written this extensive blog. Because we all have ups. We all have downs. And boy oh boy when we have downs, they’re really bad.

But that’s the thing. There’s always something. For me, every week I’ll have some new symptoms. Every week, I’ll be confronted with a new decision. Every week, a new roadblock. Every week.

So when I’m just regurgitating something in an attempt for it to mean something, it loses it’s meaning.

This was my outlet. Talking about it was so incredibly good for me. Connecting with so many people, was so good for me.

But, I left the Mighty. Because, I need to fix myself and put my energy into those I love, not a bunch of strangers on the internet who need legitimate therapy. I’m a 21 year old, I don’t have the answers for those people. So I deleted the app. I unsubscribed to the majority of the emails. I left all but the contributor’s Facebook page. Eventually, I’ll stray from that too.

Slowly, I realized these words are simply mine. And yes of course I’ve received plenty of words of encouragement to never stop writing, to never give up on spreading my story. But you see, this story has been told.

I simply don’t have anything left to say on the matter.

I don’t want to spend my life reiterating something I’ve said a thousand times. We’ve all been a waiting room. We get that I can’t eat out or go to concerts. We understand that words come across in ways we may not intend. We recognize that people don’t have to be blood to be family and to be those we go to when we need help or comfort.

Even my doctor said it today, I’m the perfect migraine patient. I don’t know what she meant by that. She may have been talking about my piles of paperwork and preparedness. But she said it again when she saw that I’d tried everything they had to try. So hey, I guess if I excelled as a student and an employee, it’s only fitting that I can excel at being sick.

At some point, you decided to hang around on this journey. You’ve invested your time and cried for me when I couldn’t. You’ve shown endless support. You’ve encouraged me to think for myself. To express myself. To never give up. So thank you. Even if you never did anything but glance through a few posts, that little tally of views that kept growing made me feel like I wasn’t alone. You’ve held me up and kept me strong. And I’ll never be able to thank you enough.

Now, it’s time to go. It’s time to turn the page, hell, let’s close the book.

This is my life. This is my migraine. So I ought to start living it. 

A.

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