Chronically Ill and Crazy: Volume 1

Anthony Newman
Nov 2 · 2 min read

There is a dark side to chronic illness. Now before you think the gravity of that statement is lost on me — that perhaps I’m just another guy behind a keyboard — allow me a moment to run down my resume, will you?

I’m 36 years old and have been living with spastic diplegia cerebral palsy since July 28, 1983, the day I was born. Six weeks early after my mother’s badly-infected appendix burst and caused premature labor. The details of that story are for another day, perhaps.

Aside from CP, I also have mild sleep apnea, a half-dozen vitamin deficiencies, sciatica… Oh yeah, and Lyme disease.

And finally, the two diagnoses that led me to begin sharing my thoughts publicly and ultimately to what might be my life’s work: chronic anxiety and depression.

With the exception of cerebral palsy at birth and a recommendation for hip replacement surgery in 2014, everything else has been diagnosed since August 2016.

And on top of all THAT, I lost a cousin to the opioid epidemic, her mother (my aunt) a few months later to a heart attack, and my grandmother — the woman who raised me — in February of this year to complications from COPD.

Three prominent women, including the woman who raised me as her own, gone in the span of a couple years. And a series of new medical diagnoses that are sure to shorten my already-stunted lifespan.

So believe me when I say: I know a little something about Chronically Ill and Crazy. I didn’t come by the name by making pretend.

I’ve lived it, and much of it has been condensed into the last 40 months or so. A lonely, frustrated, confused, dark, angry, sad, ashamed, vengeful and resentful time in my life.

That time turns around now. Today.

That’s enough. I was going to go on a rant about what you can expect from me on Medium, but I won’t. As I see it, the truth is twofold: one, I don’t really know what to expect of myself yet. And two, who cares? No one’s reading this yet anyway.

Maybe next time, I’ll write about the rap song I wrote when I was 24, as a love letter to all the bullies I’ve dealt with in my life. That seems like a good idea.

For now? Peace.

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