So, for the first time in more than two years, I'm actually really hopeful (but doubtful because it would be too good to be true) that this is my problem. That this is the diagnosis that's eluded doctor after doctor. That this disease is what I have.
And I want to have it.
I want to have it because it would explain EVERYTHING, and more than that, it is a treatable/ manageable disease. It would mean that I could take medicine every day for the rest of my life and possibly regain my life.
It would mean this endless exhaustion would end, that the pain and illnesses would heal, that I could be the person I was and the person I so desperately want to be.
I could work full time. I could dance again. I could stay up past seven without turning into an overtired troll. I'd take weekly horseback riding lessons and walk the dogs and live! I could live again and not just scrape by and survive and pinch my energy into miserly portions that never allow for me to be me.
I so desperately want to be better that I am eager to be told I have a disease that requires lifelong monitoring with fatal results should I not be vigilant. Because any of that is better than this.
Hope is a poison when you have a chronic illness without a diagnosis. Every time a potential reason is presented you feel such desperate need to have that one answer. And this answer comes with a solution. It could make everything better.
And that's why I'm so dangerously hopeful. And that's why I'm so very certain I'm about to be crushed.
Hope can be an unthinkable unkindness. It can be an act of cruelty.
What could be more insensate than the hope I feel just now that maybe, just maybe, I might finally get better?