At home, Mom practically knocked me over to give me a hug the second I stepped in the front door. 

"Oh! I'm so proud of you! My little miracle child!" She shrieked. 

"Mom, stop." I growled pushing her away, "I get that you're happy. I'm happy too. But-"

"But what?"

"Just... please don't." I stuttered, struggling to find the words to express myself. 

It wasn't that I didn't appreciate my mom's praise. Indeed, she had every reason to be as ecstatic as she was. But, it just didn't sit right with me. In a way, it almost seemed like she was giving my CF and my fear more attention than they deserved. It felt... patronizing... in a way. I wanted to keep my wins, both big and small, largely to myself.

Before I could escape my mom long enough to rush to the shower, my mom's best friend, Priscilla, and her youngest daughter, popped into the living room from the kitchen. 

"Woah..." I started, "Where'd you come from?"

"Oh... we came to stay over while you went to puppy-sit over the weekend!" Priscilla smiled, "I'm so happy for you! You went swimming for the first time in forever, I heard?"

"Uhh... yeah." I smiled, trying to hide my true feelings, "It's been a long time."

Priscilla's daughter was confused, and when her mom and my mom jumped in to explain to her why me swimming ten laps was such a big deal, I scurried away into the bathroom. 

While showering, I really chewed over what it was that was bothering me. Sure, I recognized that I felt my friends and family were giving way too much attention to a condition I wanted nothing to do with, but... why? 

Well... I guess it's simple: I wanted to forget completely about my genetic issues and not give it even the slightest attention.

After all, throughout my entire life up until Christmas of 2019, Cystic Fibrosis continuously stole things away from me, one activity at a time. First, it was swimming, then running, then hiking, then gardening, the list goes on. Why the fuck would I celebrate defeating a condition with the help of an unprecedented drug by acknowledging it? Why would I want to acknowledge something that, at this point in my life, doesn't show up anything like it used to? Why would I want to keep the memory of Cystic Fibrosis alive after all the hell it's put me through? 

Cystic Fibrosis isn't a personality trait. It's a genetic disease. A curse of sorts. Something I never asked for, and something I don't really want to be associated with anymore. Same goes for all of my physical and mental health struggles. Sure, I'm pretty fucked up, but that's not really who or what I am. I am not CF. I am not my fears. I am not my depression. I am not my Autism. I am not any of that. I am who I am because... well... it's just who I am! 

If Cystic Fibrosis was truly a personality trait, then everyone with CF would be very similar to me. But, surprise, surprise, everyone with CF is different from each other, and deal with CF differently. While some people may choose to put a spotlight on their Cystic Fibrosis, and aren't at all shy about it, and are even proud of it, I'm not one of those people.

I just want to get on with life, completely independent of my health issues. I don't want to acknowledge or even think about Cystic Fibrosis for longer than I have to. And, these days, thanks to Trikafta, I only have to pay about two minutes of attention to CF every day. Beyond that, CF doesn't even exist to me. 

When people, especially close friends and family, mention CF just out-of-the-blue, it physically hurts me; it literally feels like biting into a popsicle with sensitive teeth, or like someone blaring a train horn directly into my ears. It instantly pisses me off and causes me to recoil like a rattler. Of course, far too many people don't get it and never will, no matter what I say. So, I just do my damnedest to hide my conditions and my fears from everyone, especially those closest to me. 

As far as myself and my doctors are aware, I am ridiculously healthy, all things considered. I have more physical strength and stamina than every before. I weigh almost thirty pounds heavier than I did in 2019. My liver enzymes, my blood sugars, my Pulmonary function numbers, my grip strength, etc. are all normal and healthy as can be. I literally couldn't be healthier than I am if I tried. It's epic!

So, why would I want to remind myself of my horrific past caused by CF? Why would I want to remember what it was like to cough up bloody chunks of mucus for months on end? Why would I want to remember how skinny, weak, and exhausted I was all the time? Why would I want to remember the pain in my joints, lungs, sinuses, digestive tract, and even in my very bones? Why would I want to remember how frighteningly pale and sunken-eyed I was? Why, on God's green earth, would I want to keep such horrible memories alive?

Obviously, I don't wish to keep my past in the present. I have too much to deal with as-is. Most notably, I'm having to learn how to live, how to dream, how to set long-term goals, how everything from taxes to retirement work, how to network and make friends, so on. Things that I grew up believing I'd never have to worry about, because I'd be dead in my thirties. But, very fortunately, things have made a complete 180. I am no longer going to die in my thirties from a clusterfuck of excruciating lung infections.

Sure, there's a chance I could die in the next ten years, or five years, or year, or month, or day, or hour, or minute, or second. But, the chances of a boulder falling down the mountain and crushing my Xterra while I'm going down the highway, are no greater for me than they are for anyone else. So, unless I do, in fact, get mauled to death by a starving mountain cougar while hiking or hunting, I'm probably going to die in a retirement home sixty or seventy years from now. And, I'm having to accept that and be okay with that, and all the responsibilities a long life saddles one with. 

To be honest, it's a reality I'm still struggling with. It's a reality I can't even begin to wrap my feeble mind around. It's a reality I'm not even sure I'm okay with, because I grew up meditating and accepting death, but never life. I'm okay with the prospect of my own death. I'm not afraid of it. Of course, I'm not looking forward to dying either, as there's still a lot I wish to do and experience. But, to me, death is whatever it just is. 

Life, however...

I don't even know how to even start looking at life the same way I view death. Specifically, a long life. Especially because I basically have nobody to talk to about it. Everyone that I know led normal childhoods for the most part. Nobody I know can fully understand what it was like to be six years old, sitting in a room with one of the top CF doctors in the world, listening to that doctor explain to my parents how short and shitty my life would likely be. Nobody I know understands what it was like to grow up knowing, damn well, that they were gonna die at a very young age in a torturous, cruel way. Nobody fucking understands how that's impacted me over the years, or how hard it is to change one's mindset from, "I'm going to be dead in five or ten years" to, "Holy shit! I'm gonna be stuck on this planet for at least sixty more years!"

For me, not having anyone to vent to who can truly empathize with me, is just as isolating as Cystic Fibrosis itself. And again, that just fucking sucks! 

No wonder I get so damn upset when someone reminds me of my past, when all I want to do is run as far away from it as I fucking can. Maybe sometime in the future, when I'm more relaxed and stable, I'll be able to boast about how I kicked CF's ass. But, for now, I just want to get away from it all. I just want to be truly normal for once, or at least, live as though I am normal.