I’ve never not known what I wanted to do with my life. Ever since the age of eight when I’d saved up for my first camcorder, I knew that my dream was to become a movie director. I took editing lessons, begged my parents to send me to New York Film Academy, and received a scholarship to my dream art college.
And even when reality and the chances of succeeding in Hollywood hit me, I still had many realistic backup plans. I wanted to become a journalist, then a psychologist — all very attainable for a person with such interests as myself. But that all drastically fell apart when my chronic illnesses entered.
Without going into too much detail — I already spend enough time thinking about it in my daily life, so I’d rather not have to think about it while writing as well — I have developed three chronic conditions over the last two years. Much has changed, especially my ambitions.
Long story short: I have none. Or rather, they resemble nothing like the past.
When I was an able-bodied person who didn’t succumb to extreme fatigue and constant inflammation of the insides, I thought that anything was achievable. The possibilities were endless, and the world was made for me. Now, not so much.
I can hardly muster enough energy to do much else after accomplishing one small task a day…
