This is Not How I Wanted to Spend My 20s
They say your 20s are a confusing time of your life. It’s a period of transition. You’re an adult, and it’s time for some major decisions: decisions that can make or break your life. You have to decide on the career you want to pursue. You have to become financially independent. You have to learn to manage your finances responsibly. You have to find the right partner. In your 20s, you are presented with a blank canvas to paint the future of your dreams.
But your 20s are also an exciting time. You are young and full of energy. You are at the pinnacle of your health. You are financially independent and have the freedom to spend your money on things and experiences that bring you joy. And while you are transitioning into a life of added responsibility, your responsibilities are still few and far between. You have more freedom than you ever had and fewer responsibilities than you will ever have. It’s a time when you can afford to experiment with your life choices. If things don’t turn out well, you will have enough time to reconsider your decisions. Never again in your life will you have this kind of freedom. You can travel the world, connect with wonderful people, discover your passion, learn, grow and, in Tennyson’s words, drink life to the lees.
At least that’s what I thought my 20s would be like. But life had other plans. At 22, when I performed at my University Annual Fest, little did I know that it was the last time I would ever dance. A few days later, I had a sharp pain in one of my legs. I felt as if someone had ripped apart a vein in my leg. The pain did not improve even after a few weeks, so I decided to consult a doctor. He gave me some vitamins and assured me there was no cause for concern. Happy to hear this, I went back home. A few days later, I was back at the doctor’s office because the pain had increased significantly. I could also feel a palpable mass at the site of pain. The doctor sent me home again with more vitamins. As the pain and swelling continued to increase, I decided to consult another doctor. I remember screaming in pain (and cursing the doctor under my breath) when he hit me with his medical instrument at the site of swelling and asked me if it hurt. Dismissing my pain, he declared that nothing was wrong with my leg and sent me home with anti-anxiety medications, which I refused to take. Five days later, I was back at his office pushing for a diagnosis. He relented and sent me for an ultrasound.
The next few days were a whirlwind of more and more invasive tests. Two weeks later, I was on the operating table. The surgeon assured me that it would be a simple procedure. It would be over in a few minutes, and I could leave for home the following day. But things didn’t go as planned. I had to stay at the hospital for a few days and was homebound for more than a month. A month later, when I complained to my surgeon that I was still in pain, he said the pain would eventually go away. When it didn’t, he suggested another surgery which I was highly sceptical about. So, he put me on painkillers which masked the pain for a while, but it was a short-term solution. And just like that, I had to learn to live with chronic pain and give up something I really enjoyed: dancing.
Little did I know that this experience was merely a prelude to what was in store for me in the next few years. At 23, I was struggling with a host of health issues. I was losing a lot of weight. People had started pointing out how pale I looked. I was having trouble digesting even a simple meal, and climbing just one flight of stairs would leave me breathless. I was chalking it up to weakness until my 24th birthday when things suddenly went downhill. I could no longer ignore my symptoms and knew I needed immediate medical attention.
This led to another, and a much longer, phase of doing rounds of doctors and specialists. I had to undergo tests after tests to find out what was wrong with me. Some of the tests were so invasive that they added to the pain I was already enduring. The doctors took so long to figure out what was wrong that it delayed treatment. My condition deteriorated significantly to the point where I was convinced I wouldn’t make it. The physical pain was taking a toll on my mental health. I remember having multiple panic attacks and nervous breakdowns every day. I remember not being able to sleep for months. I remember being afraid of sleep because the nightmares were so terrible that I would often wake up with my heart racing in panic. I remember not wanting to endure it any longer and wishing to break free from the body that was giving me so much trouble. Even after getting a diagnosis, it took me around two years to bring my symptoms under control. I was homebound for more than a year. And when I finally got a job, I wasn’t sure I could hold it down.
Once the worst was over, I had to tailor my life to enable myself to live with my chronic health issues. It took a lot of time and effort, but I managed to bring some degree of stability to my life. My mental health also started to improve. That I managed to pull myself out of the dark place I had slipped into is something I will always be proud of.
But this stability comes at a cost. I need to regularly assess my choices to determine if they make my life easier or add to my troubles. I have to be good at prioritising. I have to choose where I want to put my energy and what is clearly not worth the effort. Dancing was not the only thing I had to give up. I have to avoid certain food groups for the rest of my life. I cannot push myself too much. I need at least 8–9 hours of sleep to function well, and even then, I struggle with fatigue. I have to rest between tasks that healthy people can easily breeze through. I cannot travel without packing a box of medicines and still get sick whenever I travel. And no matter how much I love travelling, sometimes staying at home is a safer choice.
It is a price I am willing to pay. I have come to accept that I need to keep up with my efforts if I want to remain stable health-wise. It’s like biking: if I stop pedalling, I fall. At times, I lose balance even when I am pedalling as consistently as I can. I had a flare-up recently and had to take a month off work to recover. Once my condition flares up, getting back on track takes a while. And the fear that I’ll once again slip into the darkness I’ve left behind takes hold of me. But then I remind myself that I’ve already overcome the worst and I can certainly do it again. This is what keeps me going.
