How It Feels to Have MCS (Daisies' view)

Hello, Friends,

My two posts, "Daisies" and "Daisies - Part II" were detailed and admittedly grueling to write, but I wrote both with the purpose of telling you a significant part of my own chemically afflicted background -- and to make it perfectly clear why I recognize homelessness as being the looming threat that it is to all chemically sensitive people.

Likewise, I've detailed my recent experiences with iodine as they relate to my present health status -- again with the hopes of plugging into something that might possibly be relevant to other chemically sensitive individuals.

Having said that, I would like to explore the topic of how it feels to be a toxically injured/chemically sensitive person --- and how it feels to write or talk about chemical sensitivity.  As each chemically sensitive person is unique and varies from the next person in background and emotional makeup, I wish to stress that, of course, I realize I can speak here only for myself.

My predominant emotional reaction to my own chemical sensitivity is a disgusted despondency, a self-conscious embarrassment.  Not embarrassment about the reality or nature of the affliction, itself, but embarrassment at being forced to speak about myself in this way to another person, merely in order to mitigate or eliminate something that makes me feel, for lack of a better word, "sick."  My own social code, otherwise, would propel me away, far away, from having to direct any attention to myself in this manner -- often upon just being introduced to someone, or upon seeing someone again after a long time . . .  And the topic is so unattractive, so seemingly ungracious.  It's a blot upon social loveliness.

In short, chemical sensitivity causes me to appear to misrepresent myself, and my idea of social graces, right off the bat.

I also feel extremely mortified every time I write a post, here, relating to myself or my physical condition.  I try to put that sense of mortification in the back of my mind, but I tell you honestly, I find the concept of detailing these things odious, ugly.  I forge my way through it with the hopes of ending it as quickly as possible and getting onto a more desirable topic.

But I know how very much the smallest details of other people's histories can, at times, beam an unexpected bright light into a very dark and bewildering experience.  If other people had not detailed their own agonizing experiences to what I'd generally consider a potentially "mortifying" extent, then I might never have realized what, exactly, afflicted me.  The same goes for mothers of sensory-challenged children, as another example, who might initially have no idea of what ails their child until they read the painstaking details of another child's story, written by his parent(s).  I also consider, as one more example, the mind-bending awakening of parents who realize, suddenly, through the smallest details of stories told by another parent, that their child might actually be on drugs.

Details matter.

The sad fact is that, while diligently compiling and transmitting details, the chemically sensitive person runs an extremely high risk of being misinterpreted and having his otherwise intact credibility being swept away by others' misunderstanding.

In colloquial terms, this knowledge leaves me with a weary, despondent feeling of, "Yes [deep sigh], I'm one of those persons."  Meaning, I'm one of those persons who are often mistakenly thought to be a little bit "off" in the head, a little paranoid, a little bit . . . let's say it:  crazy.  Oh, others may be nice about it, because they don't think you're really that far off the beam -- but, well, just a little bit off to the side somewhere.  But you're still lovable, although you really must be taken with a grain of salt . . .

So there is often this subtle, polite, guarded mistrust on the part of others.  A chemically sensitive person who has had to squeeze through this invisible barbed wire knows well the sense of this. 

There are, in this world, persons who are truly hysterical hypochondriacs who see doomsday at every turn.  I cannot tell you who they are and who they aren't.  But we humans know that these "afflictions of the mind" exist.  And simply knowing that hypochondriacs exist is enough to inspire in anyone a fear of being considered one of them.

Consequently, I often experience a sinking, "drop in the stomach" feeling at the thought of my own writing on this blog.  Every time I write a post, I experience an internal flinch, a quick flash of "subclinical" terror in which I ask myself, "Will I survive this post?"  

Translated:  "Will others now believe I've lost all my credibility?  Will they tune me out?"

Many will.  

But some won't.  And those "some" make this blog well worth the writing.

Cheers!

~ Daisies