After reading back on what's been written so far, I have found some common themes. Themes relating to identity, frustration, and downright rage at my circumstances, my life, and those whom I love very much but still have some bones to pick with. Largely because those people don't treat me or respect me in the way I wish to be treated and respected.

My family (as wonderful and loving as they are), has a long history of crossing my boundaries, especially ones that I have in place to protect my physical and mental health. Out of all the bothersome things my family tends to do, bringing up my health issues without warning or permission is, perhaps, the most problematic of them all. Most people I run into don't need to know exactly why I'm so picky when it comes to food, or why I sometimes "shut down" and hide in a far room at a party. Those conversations should only be reserved for the people I trust the most, and those (like my doctors) who need to hear it in order to keep me alive.

Unfortunately, much of my family's (especially on my mom's side) yet to get the memo. I've tried for years to tell my close family why it bothers me when they tell others the most intimate details on my physical and mental health seemingly out-of-the-blue. Apparently, in their eyes, if I'm willing to talk about my health problems in a memoir and among my closest friends, then everything regarding my mental and physical health is fair-game to talk about at dinner parties and among co-workers. 

What they don't get is that I don't typically bring up my health issues completely without warning. I'm very careful and deliberate when disclosing my health issues to others, and prefer that most people I encounter have no idea that I'm anything other than normal. Ok, I may come off as a little eccentric to most, but that doesn't typically make people treat me much differently. 

What exactly do I mean when I say, "People treat me differently". Well, many people tend to patronize me upon learning about how "different" I am. Many people also treat me with pity, and try to protect me from and help me with things I don't need any help or protection from. It also really rubs me the wrong way when people say that I'm "so inspirational" and "am the most badass person" they know. I mean, I'm just living my life. It's not like I wanted to be born a genetic abomination, or have any idea what it's like to not be afflicted by CF and ASD. It's not like I could've been anything but strong and stubborn. CF is as normal and a part of me as the sensation of taste. It's just... there. 

Also, I'd rather talk about virtually anything with people besides my CF or ASD. The only reason why I talk about my health conditions with some people is because A) it's necessary, and B) with certain people, it's therapeutic. Writing is also a therapeutic tool I use to survive. But, it sure as hell ain't necessary or therapeutic to talk about my health issues with most people, especially those introduced to me by my family. Because then, I'm either a fragile little flower, or I have some god-like supernatural powers (because only people with god-like powers can survive as I have, apparently). 

See where I'm going with this, still (my brain's still running on fumes courtesy of Harry fuckin' Potter, and caffeine isn't helping).