The third person, blindsided & self-acceptance

I lost an important relationship a few years back. Specifics I cannot share since other people deserve their privacy. Let’s just say this loss was devastating.

Eric could tell you how many times he had to talk me through nights when I was crying so hard I could barely think. I was mad, sad, and hurt—all at the same time. And it wasn’t my choice. I was blindsided.

I was furious that I had even been put in this situation. There was no warning, no discussion—just a phone call, and boom! My life had changed. When I heard the word "estrangement," something inside me snapped to attention. My inner warrior rose up, ready to fight for the relationship. Because that’s what I’ve always had to do.

When I was younger, no one knew what I had—Kartagener’s Syndrome is so rare that doctors didn’t even understand it (I wasn’t diagnosed until age 14). So I had to push through, going to school sick, fighting through exhaustion, trying not to cough so much, and making sure nobody saw me wipe my nose. I mean, I’m ill every single day of my life. I’ve never known anything different. So when I was plagued by this phone call, my instincts kicked in and I tried to go into fight mode.

However, after quite a few defensive pleas, I grabbed a notebook to make sure I remembered everything. My mind was such a mess that I knew I wouldn’t remember things clearly, and I had to get it right. When you live with a chronic illness, you learn to document things, to track symptoms, to make sense of the chaos. Writing things down has always been a way to stay in control when so much is out of my hands.

So, I took notes. A lot of notes. And one of the things I wrote down was about a text I had sent—one where I was told I talked about myself in the third person. What? The third person? That detail stuck with me.

Because, honestly? I started to realize that I do that a lot. Especially when I’m in distress or writing about something difficult. And maybe that’s because, when you live with a chronic illness every single day of your life, sometimes you have to step outside of yourself just to cope. There’s no escaping this body, no escaping the illness, so at some point in my life, I peculiarly started writing about myself in the third person. Maybe it was a survival mechanism. Maybe it was a way to create a little distance from something that never gives me a break. But the more I thought about it over that year, the more I realized—I actually think that’s kind of cool!

Later, I confided in a group of supportive friends, and they thought it was brilliant. They started to advise, What if I wrote down everything I like about Lynne? What if I documented all the negative things Lynne says to herself? What if doing that helped me see who I really am outside of my illness? I thought they were all onto something.

The loss of this relationship made me question everything, but in the process, I’ve realized something important: some people never really knew me at all. But others? They see me, they know me, and they like me exactly the way I am.

In a way, I’ve known loss my whole life. Being born with this nasty disease, like having to cough up stuff 24/7, has dictated so much of how I live. Loss isn’t new to me—it’s something I carry daily. I was always asking myself, “How long can I stay at this event before I can't hold in all the mucus that has built up?” or “Where can I get it all out in secret?” and “Can I make it outside to my car without anyone knowing I left for 20 minutes to cough this junk out?” I was never free to thoroughly enjoy myself when outside of my home. I always had to plan for when I couldn’t hold it down in my lungs any longer. I was held captive by my lungs.

And as I've gotten older, the losses in terms of 'freedom' have only piled up. I’m always chained to my nebulizer, my vest, my oxygen at night. Now, even when I exercise, I have to be on oxygen. I have to constantly be aware of my surroundings, avoiding anyone who might be sick. I could go on but hopefully you get what I mean.

So this loss—the one that blindsided me—was just another lesson in how resilient I have learned to become at such an early age. I never asked for this diagnosis at birth and still wish I didn’t have it. Many times I wake up and feel like I’m being blindsided by this disease over and over again. So I’ve got this!

In the end, the loss of that relationship reminded me that the people who truly see me, who accept me as I am, with all my flaws and the side effects that accompany this illness, are the ones who matter the most. I need those who recognize that I may be in distress. And maybe, just maybe, the person I need to see and accept the most is myself—disease and all. At the time of that call, I was being told that referring to myself in “third person” was wrong and viewed it as a negative. I wish I knew myself better and simply laughed it off. Because it is anything but a negative. Lynne now thinks it’s one of her favorite coping mechanisms to date! ;)