The New App That Will Manage Your MS Like A Boss



Disclaimer: This is the part where I remind you that I’m just a blogger with a big mouth. My own love language is mostly gin and sarcasm. This is what I needed, but everyone is different. |
This morning as I wrote the date in my diary: 01.11… I stopped short before writing the year. Not because it’s still a new year and I refuse to accept it, but because January 11th is one of those dates that strikes a chord deep inside my mind. It makes me stop and say, “Oh yeah. January 11th.” This morning, still sleepy and under-caffeinated, when the date finally clicked for me, images from years ago started filling my head in vivid detail, like I was reliving the events of yesterday and not of 2001.
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This was not pink in real life. IRL it was scary AF. |
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10 Secrets I’d Tell My Newly Diagnosed Self About MSIf I could travel back in time to 2001 when I was newly diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, the first thing I would tell my younger, stupider self would be to, “Pour one out for those cargo pants. You don’t need pockets on your knees. You have, like, 16 bags.” And Younger Me would be like, “What’s with all the rips in your jeans? Are we poor in the future?” And Future Me would clap back, “Nice chunky highlights, cough”. And Younger Me would be all, “Your eyebrows? Are enormous. Is there a muppet trend happening in the future?” This would go on for awhile until we both realized that neither of us could win; our bitchiness being perfectly matched. After we’d hugged it out and established a shade-throwing cease-fire, Future Me (grown-up, classy and chill), would re-introduce myself to Newly Diagnosed Me (naive, mouthy and hysterical), as the devastating illness expert I’d so desperately needed when I’d first heard the term MS. Here’s how it would go down: Newly Dx’d Me: What the hell is going on and why did this happen? WAIT. Is this because I… Future Me: No, idiot. You did not bring this on by hosting a wine-soaked Halloween séance. The sudden blindness you went through two weeks later was not God’s punishment for casting a hair-loss spell on your crush’s girlfriend. Trust me. I checked with Science. Sometimes bad things happen to bitchy people, and it’s just a coincidence. |
Your best friends and family are there to carry your shit, to drive you places, to listen to your meltdowns. When you think you can’t deal, you give it the The Banker. And when you need to connect with people who really get it, you have a whole tribe of Trippers supporting you.
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duh, wtf were you expecting? |
If you have relapsing-remitting MS (RRMS) chances are you’ve heard some version of this. It’s not even unique to multiple sclerosis. It’s a refrain familiar in all chronic disease communities where invisible illness is common. “But you don’t look sick!” is what comes immediately after outing yourself with some dreadful but mysterious condition.
Is there something about a disease like MS that renders its victims exceptionally attractive? Don’t get me wrong. I love hearing about my good looks and great hair, but rather than feeling like a true compliment, this one smacks of disbelief; of incredulity there could possibly be anything wrong. I was once asked ‘Are they sure you have MS? You don’t look sick.’ I was tempted to say ‘You don’t look ignorant’, but of course, she totally did. (She was wearing Crocs.) The whole thing feels like a sneaky accusation of phony fakery. Of laziness. Of ‘It’s all in your head, you whiny whiner’. Let’s face it. ‘But, you look so good!’ is ig. Over and again it compels us to provide proof we are actually suffering.