I've actually made some connections about CF along the way that my doctors never made. For instance, my lung function is better not just because God has miraculously saved me a few times, or because I take good care of myself, although those are part of it, but because I've had to seriously fight for every breath I've taken. I live well over a mile above sea level in a very dry, windy, salt-less, and often hazy environment. The strength I need to breathe normally out here is incredible, yet I do it all of the time and am completely used to it because I was born and raised in the Mile High City.

Meanwhile, people with CF who live in very salty, wet, sea-level environments such as Florida and California don't have to fight to breathe nearly as much. So, they are considerably weaker than me, and thus much more susceptible to infections, decline, and death. When I travel to places like Florida and California, I'll actually get overwhelmed by the easy air. It almost feels like I'm trying to breathe with my head out the window of a car on the highway. There's just too much oxygen for my body to deal with, and I'll usually choke and gasp for the first hour after I get off the plane until I finally get used to it enough to stop. However, I never truly feel normal until I get back home. 

I've learned that the easy way is not always the best way. My parents could've, and were even pressured by many specialists, to move to California for the sake of my health. There, I would have a much easier time breathing, but for all of the wrong reasons. While I would've had to do less treatments due to the salty air in California, I wouldn't have gotten so strong there. Colorado forced me to build up a great tolerance for pain, and also forced me to breathe harder, resulting in stronger muscles for breathing. 

I don't notice how hard it really is to breathe in Colorado. The only reason why I know it's hard to breathe is because other people tell me it is, and because I actually have visible abs even though I rarely do any real workouts to strengthen my core. Breathing is my core-strengthening workout, even though I don't notice it.

Recently, one of my dad's childhood friends, Joel, came from Minnesota to visit Colorado for a couple weeks. While we were walking around Breckenridge, Joel and his girlfriend (who are both athletically active and in decent shape) were huffing and puffing, and were completely shocked that neither myself or my dad felt the affects of the high altitude. I was all jacked up on caffeine, so I had no problem running around Joel and his girlfriend in circles while they struggled just to walk uphill, just to tease them a bit. They both took the joke well. But things like that really put my world into perspective. I really am healthier than most because I am stronger than most, and I can't be more grateful to live in the great state of Colorado after I figured all of this out. I guess Romans 5:3-4 is true in the sense that suffering is more often used for good rather than for bad. 

That doesn't mean I'm grateful for everything I've suffered so far. While suffering does build character, it also scars the sufferer for life. Sure, I'm definitely an insightful person after all that I've gone through, and I certainly don't fit in with everyone else, but suffering has also fed into my inner demons and biggest fears. While I may not show it, I am afraid often, and always anticipating another bout of illness or another night terror associated with PTSD. 

My suffering has also given people a lot of false ideas about me. They too often believe that I'm ok with being a poster child for CF, as if it's a badge of honor, and am very comfortable with telling people my story. However, that couldn't be further from the truth. I hate my disease and the things it's done to me. The last thing I want to be remembered for is this godforsaken condition I was born with.

Plus, all too often, the parts of my story I remember are also the most traumatic parts. Even writing parts of this memoir has been very difficult, and I've broken out into a cold sweat just thinking about some of this stuff. I've also had a few anxiety attacks and breakdowns while recounting certain memories for this book. My story is no easy story to tell. Not by a long shot. But, according to my therapist, writing about my life is likely how I'll heal from past memories, so I'll be prepared, or at least as prepared for it as possible, when the next war with illness comes. I'll never be cured of PTSD, but I can defang my past and put it somewhere on the back burner. But, usually it's only time that does that. 

Like how I don't let CF define me, I don't let PTSD define me. I still have a life to get on with, and I can't do that if I constantly live in the past. Sure, like CF, PTSD will occasionally bite me in the ass, and there's nothing I can do to stop it from doing that. But, when I'm healthy, far away from the hospital, and enjoying life, it's usually pretty easy for me to forget that I have PTSD. Plus, I'm so used to living with it, I can just function through life even if I'm in the middle of riding another wave of anxiety. 

However, when I'm faced with something that truly scares me, such as another serious lung infection, I'm not so functional. People often see me as being fearless, because I can kill spiders without apprehension and ride dirtbikes in the mountains. But, in reality, I'm anything but fearless. As soon as I'm diagnosed with yet another lung infection, and threatened with hospitalizations, and told I should expect some permanent lung damage, that's when I panic. Unfortunately, panicking only makes my illness even worse. My throat closes up, and my body secretes even more mucus as I struggle to breathe through my tears. There isn't much I, or anyone else, can do to comfort me. I just have to ride the wave, or, more accurately, choke and thrash around until the wave finally rolls over me, which can take more than an hour. 

But, once I can breathe again and have exhausted myself into relaxation, my logic and reasoning skills kick in. Fear is replaced with the tremendous instinct of survival, and from then on I know I must keep my shit together if I'm going to pull through with little to no permanent damage. I know I can't do it alone, however, even if I'm the only one who can fight CF. That's when I beg God for help, as He's the only One who could have any real influence on my condition. Miracles have happened before, and my faith assures me that they will happen again, assuming it's not my time to go. 

My relationship with God is certainly interesting. I'm not afraid to challenge or to mock Him. I'm not afraid to question God's morality or His ways. I'm not afraid to get upset at God and cuss Him out. But, at the same time, I'm not afraid because I know God will not forsake me. I know He understands, and will always accept me with open arms when I'm ready to give this whole faith thing another shot. However, God does not spare me from consequences. When my faith is slipping and my love for God is quickly dwindling, God won't hold my demons back. Sometimes, the only way I can be brought back to God is to have a run-in with evil, whether that be a horrible experience at the hospital, or an actual, paranormal event that defies all logic and explanation.