Punishing My Body Before I Knew I Had MS

I was nineteen when my body first betrayed me.

At least, that is how it felt at the time. I did not have a diagnosis yet. I did not have language for what was happening. I only knew that one day I was walking ten miles on a boardwalk at the Jersey shore, staying out late with my friends, feeling young and unstoppable and alive. And the next, I could not get out of bed.

Unable to get out of bed

My body collapsed into exhaustion, pain, and weakness that made no sense to me. A doctor told me it was depression. I believed him, because I wanted to. Because depression felt less terrifying than the truth I did not yet know.

I slowly improved, but I never returned to who I was before. I gained thirty pounds. I hated myself for it. I thought I had failed. I thought my body was weak.

I did not know I was sick

In my early twenties, I surrounded myself with people who tied my worth to my weight. The boyfriend I had then made sure I never forgot how he saw me. He called me “fat girl” like it was my name. He controlled what I ate. He decided I only needed one meal a day. He decided that meal did not need protein. He gave away the treats I bought for myself as if my body was something he was responsible for policing.

His father once said, when he heard we were going on a hike, “She’s not gonna be able to do that.”

Believing the negative comments about me

I heard him. I understood him. And slowly, I began to believe him.

They thought I was lazy. They thought I was weak. They thought I was fat.

And I was already exhausted from fighting an illness I did not know I had.

Working out became harder. Recovery took longer. My body resisted me. And instead of wondering why, the people around me told me I simply was not trying hard enough. So I punished my body for not obeying.

I cut out carbs. I cut out protein. I starved myself into thinness. And I succeeded. I became smaller.

But I also became sick.

I was moody. Fragile. Always on the edge of tears. My body was malnourished. My nervous system was inflamed. And I told myself this was discipline.

Throughout my twenties, I had flare after flare after flare.

Then came the medical gaslighting

I went to doctors. I asked for help. I described my symptoms. And over and over, I was told it was anxiety. Depression. Stress. In my head.

After every flare, I gained more weight. And after every flare, I hated myself more.

Finally a diagnosis

By the time I turned thirty, I was finally diagnosed with multiple sclerosis.

By then, my body had already paid the price of being ignored.

I cannot move the way I should. I cannot trust my energy. I cannot rely on my strength. I live inside a body that has been misunderstood, punished, dismissed, and blamed.

I hate how much MS has taken from me.

I hate the doctors who did not listen.

I hate the people who made me feel worthless for symptoms I could not control.

I hate that I am disabled.

And I also know that hate does not get to have the final word.

Making changes in friendship and how I treat my body

Because I am changing.

I am learning what nourishes a body with MS. I am learning which exercises work for me instead of against me. I am learning that health is not punishment. It is partnership.

I only keep people around who love me for who I am, not what I look like.

I have a husband who prepares every meal with care, who encourages me to eat more, not less. Who offers me seconds with joy. Who treats my body like something precious instead of something to correct.

I am not fixed.

Finally being kind to myself

But I am finally being kind.

My body is not the enemy. It never was. It was fighting for me long before I knew how to fight for it.

And now, for the first time in my life, I am learning how to stand on the same side as my body instead of against it.