It was a Monday-- the start of a fresh semester. I pushed through a weird queasy/cramping feeling in my stomach all day and happily attended night class. Following class, I went to bed feeling completely nauseated and incredibly exhausted from "pushing through" all day. Still, it didn't occur to me that something could be seriously wrong.

Around 2am Tuesday morning I began throwing up. I woke up sweating profusely with a fever of 101.2 and attempted to go back to sleep + ignore the pain in my stomach though it appeared to be worsening. At this point, I thought perhaps I had the flu. I had also done my Methotrexate injection the evening prior and it is not uncommon for me to experience nausea/vomiting/a low grade fever following injection night(s). I continued trying to get some rest. No big deal, I thought.

I was wrong.

By 8am Tuesday morning, I could no longer hold down water or lie in anything other than the fetal position. The "twisted" feeling in my stomach left me feeling pretty certain that I was suffering from a bowel obstruction. I picked up my phone and dialed the colorectal surgery office and spoke with one of the nurses who cared for me following my subtotal colectomy last April. Through tears, I explained my symptoms and attempted to breathe deeply through the pain which was becoming more and more difficult to do as the seconds passed. The nurse and I both agreed that I needed to get to the Emergency Room where my attending surgeon would come by later. That said, she started the admitting process over the phone.

As I was giving the nurse the basic admitting information she asked for, she told me to pack a few things and gather my medications. Though I was aware of my delusional state from lack of sleep and the exhaustion that accompanies such pain, I somehow thought that I was going to drive myself to the ER. As I crawled my way out of bed and stood up to gather my medications, the pain became so severe that I blacked out/fainted. It happened quickly and absolutely without warning. When I came back "to" I was lying in a puddle of vomit and completely disoriented. After a few seconds, I remembered I had been talking to a nurse. I picked my phone off the floor and heard her say "McKenzie, stay with me. There is an ambulance on the way."

I don't know if it was the sheer feeling of defeat or the effects that the significant pain/lack of sleep were having on me at this point, but I broke down into hysterical sobs on the floor of my bedroom. Within 5 minutes, several paramedics came into my dorm room apartment, somehow managed to get me on the stretcher, and on the way to the hospital.

The ambulance ride was absolutely terrifying and incredibly uncomfortable. The pain continued to ebb and flow much more severely. As it lessened and then spiked again I screamed, continued to sweat, and white knuckled the scratchy ambulance blanket all wadded up in my hand. I really don't think I can even recount further details right now as my mind seems to be blocking them out (and for good reason). The 12 hours between 8am and 8pm that day were easily the worst and most painful hours in my 21 years of life thus far.

By the time we arrived at the hospital, all of my admitting paperwork was done. I was brought to a room in the ER where I was given pain meds and we arranged for a CT scan. The CT revealed (as suspected) a small bowel obstruction. Due to its location and severity, my surgeon suggested I may have had this obstruction for over a month.

Immediately, an NG tube was placed to decompress my stomach and remove the bile which had settled and was making me so sick. My surgeon came in again shortly thereafter and explained the emergency dilation procedure I would need to undergo early the following morning. At this point, my pain was being phenomenally managed and the next thing I remember is waking up in the hospital room I would call home for the next 7 days.


I told the Chaplain I couldn't remember the last time I prayed true, physical healing over my own body. I told the Chaplain how I haven't really been to church in over a year. I told him of some recent experiences in which two church "leaders" suggested there may be "unforgiven, generational sin" in my family...hence the reason I had not yet "received healing."

Finally, I told the Chaplain what I felt God was telling me as I had been lying in the that hospital bed. I told him that I had spent the past several days doing nothing but swearing and yelling at God. Angry...livid, really. But also that I had never felt so close the One who created my body this way...and no doubt for some good and holy reason.

I told the Chaplain that I believe God can heal. In fact, I believe that He DOES. But there is something to be said about other forms of healing (in ways and for reasons higher than our own) apart from the physical. I believe that God has been faithful to me thus far and will continue to be. I see that God has used this pain whether He ordained it or not. He has made it purposeful, intricate, and beautiful. He has made it worthwhile. And yes, He has even made it good.

"God could have healed me 7 years ago, a week ago, even yesterday...but He has not chosen to do so...and that," I shared, "gives me reason to believe that perhaps the path I'm walking has a purpose far greater than what I will ever be able to comprehend."

That, to me, is the absolute truth. Some way, some how, God has given me distinct purpose and great joy in a life marked by tragic illness, great despair, and exhausting desperation. Perhaps having been given those things is what allows me to live a better life than the one I would be living if physical healing allowed me to do so painlessly and "ailment free" here on earth.

The bottom line I tried to explain is that to live in a constant state of pain is to live in a constant state of reliance on faith in Christ. I believe that and know nothing will ever compare to that. I fully believe that being healed and whole in Heaven one day will be worth the journey I am currently on.

Heaven. My mind was then directed to the idea of Heaven. Through tears I told the Chaplain "I don't want to be healed because I want to experience the fullness of God's presence HERE. In great sickness. In horrendous pain. In a plastic hospital bed with an NG tube down my throat, a defeated spirit inside of me, and visible tears in my eyes..."

I want to experience the fullness of Christ and how He responds to His children when they are lying awake at 2am screaming in pain and begging for the strength to make it through to the next dosage of pain meds. I want to experience the fullness of Christ which feels so visceral and overwhelmingly beautiful upon waking up from yet another round of general anesthesia. I want to experience the fullness of Christ in the deepest, darkest hours of my life here on earth.

...And I want those things not for attention, pity, or to be seen as some great martyr. I want those things and the other pain our broken lives bring because I want to seek, to know; to pursue, to learn. To wrestle with and experience the perplexing truth that authentic JOY is possible in the midst of severe pain.

All of these thoughts and tears had me reciting a favorite poem in my head. A poem that I'd never truly understood before, but could now grasp to its full extent.

The Thorn by Martha Snell Nicholson 

I stood a mendicant of God before His royal throne
And begged Him for one priceless gift, which I could call my own.
I took the gift from out His hand, but as I would depart
I cried, "but Lord this is a thorn and it has pierced my heart.
This is a strange, a hurtful gift, which Thou hast given me."
He said, "my child, I give good gifts and I gave My best to thee."
I took it home and though at first the cruel thorn hurt sore,
As long years passed I learned at last to love it more and more.
I learned He never gives a thorn without His added grace,
He takes the thorn to pin aside the veil which hides His face.

I don't want to be (physically) healed. Not here, not now...for I know God is using this daunting hike through life and the mountains of chronic illness to refine and restore my soul in ways that only He can.

So, the Chaplain and I prayed. Not for physical healing but for the strength to endure. The grace to benefit. The willingness to learn from and let God use this pain. For the first time in a long time, I felt like someone had truly listened to me. Someone allowed me to be comfortable in all of my uncomfortableness...someone chose to enter into that uncomfortableness with me. And in my mind, there is nothing more beautiful than that.

My ongoing battle with major depressive disorder began around the age of 14. It began to rear its ugly head shortly after the onset of what would later be diagnosed as seronegative juvenile idiopathic arthritis and has now become seronegative rheumatoid arthritis. The nature of this autoimmune condition is still idiopathic, meaning we have no idea what is causing the inflammation.

All that to say-- because not a lot is known regarding the nature/progression of idiopathic autoimmune diseases from a juvenile perspective, I went misdiagnosed for a period of almost 2 years. During those 2 years, I struggled intensely. I was passed around from doctor to doctor-- many of whom refused to acknowledge a single physical symptom I was experiencing. Because I was a young woman in pain, it was believed that I was clinically depressed and there was no more to the story. But for me, there was.

If I wasn't occupied wishing that death would soon come, I found myself wishing that I could at least find a way out. I figured that 'way out' had to come through one of two things: suicide, or finding a purpose in the pain. I am grateful still today that the latter won out.

Although I was diagnosed with both primary and secondary physical conditions, my mind remained in the dark. All the while I thought "Kenzie, what the hell is wrong with you? Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get on with it. No one else your age feels this way. You have a physical diagnosis at last-- your mind has no reason to be in the depths of despair anymore."

But that's just it. Depression, anxiety, and post traumatic stress disorder have no rhyme or reason. They don't signal warning signs before they take over your life and they are far from predictable. They ravage your life and take all that they can; whether that consists of your energy, your passions, your spirit, or your ability to do something as 'simple' as taking a shower.


And that's precisely where I found myself. In the depths of despair day in and day out...constantly looking for a way to draw attention elsewhere. I got into unhealthy relationships, attempted to ignore my mind's cry for help, and eventually became convinced that this bleak life would never improve.

For 4 long years, I continued attempting to ignore the pain of both my mental health and physical state. And finally...halfway through my freshman year of college, I recognized that I really needed help. Really needed it.

That summer-- two summers ago-- became a massive game of trial and error. I was put on some of my very first anti-depressants and I saw a licensed psychologist 3 times a week. I was referred to a psychiatrist in the area and we continued to find the med combination that would work for me. We burnt through Cymbalta, Savella, Effexor, Prozac, and a list of PTSD inhibitors to help me sleep at night. Things certainly got worse before they got better.
But then, we found somewhat of a medication match. Even so...today, I still find myself somewhere between "stable" and "unstable." I am able to currently work part time, study full time, and participate in college life. For the most part, I am able to socialize, complete tasks, motivate myself, and LIVE. It's refreshing, but it's not the reality everyday for someone who is mentally ill. To advocate for that truth, I've made it my mission to acknowledge the beauty, the pain, and everything in between...most often, publicly.

Whether it's an Instagram caption turned mini blog post, a simple 140 character tweet, or an extensive post like this one that I've poured tears and so much more into...I have found that the sharing of our own realities and perceptions not only empowers us, but it breaks down the barrier that says conversations surrounding mental health are 'uncomfortable' or 'wrong' in the context of community...especially the religious/spiritual community.

Rough day with . Recognizing that instead of just sulking in it reminds me of the progress I've made, though.

— Kenzie ()

I made a decision when I was first placed on anti-depressants and given a prescription for sedatives to calm me down during a panic attack or PTSD episode. That decision was this: there can be questions, there can be uncertainty, there can even be fear...but one thing you will never, ever find dwelling here is shame.

Let me tell you something, friends. Mental illness does not discriminate. That is unfortunate. Even tragic for some. But what we must also remember is that neither does the ability of HOPE to carry us through. There is always hope.

Physically, this has been the most painful year I've experienced yet. Mentally (though there were certainly moments of great triumph), I would have to say the same. It has been painful and so so heavy to carry this pain around and it's been even harder to the ignore the stigma that is associated with such struggles.

I have had 3 intense scares with my mental health in the past month where the idea of hurting myself became more than a distant thought. I spent several nights in hospital psych wards not knowing how I got there or if I would get to go home that day.

3 weeks later, I am much more stable. We have adjusted medications and I am being followed closely by multiple competent physicians. While I'm "okay," I'm also still struggling. That in and of itself (as previously mentioned) is a pretty freakin' weird limbo to be in.

A quote I read once says "it is necessary to let things go, very simply for the reason that they are heavy." That couldn't be more true, especially right now. I don't think I've ever resonated with something so strongly.

I have been given the opportunity to embark on a European study abroad adventure on January 4th and will be away until the 26th. I am very, very much looking forward to the respite and perspective this trip has the potential to provide and cannot wait to share those adventures through writing and pictures with many of you. For now, though, I need to (and am going to) step away.

Social media (and this blog in particular) is an instrumental part of my life and journey any way you hash it, but sometimes we need space -- even from the things that make us feel most alive and ourselves.

And there is no shame.

I'd been in a fever/nausea induced state for most of the day and I looked like hell. I hadn't slept more than an hour the night before. I was wearing leggings for the fourth day in a row and just by glancing in the general area that my lower leg attaches to my ankle, you could visibly tell I hadn't shaved my legs in days. I hadn't washed my hair that morning and I was wearing makeup from the day before. I'd missed my morning class and was just leaving my biology lab early.

And though I looked like hell, one of my friends stopped me in the hallway to ask how I was doing (and associate with me in my less than desirable state). As we stood there discussing our days, she said to me, "Kenzie, I just don't get how you do it. How do you do it?"

"How do I perfect the hobo look?" I said jokingly...surely that's what she meant.

She chuckled, "No, I mean THAT. How do you do THAT? That humor, that smile, that strut like you're on a mission thing even when you're in pain? I want to know how you do that."

I was dumbfounded. At a loss for words. Speechless, really. I had no idea what she meant. How do I do what? I felt like a walking zombie falling apart at the seams. All day, I had been desperately pleading with God just to help me make it through the day in one piece...and preferably without any mental breakdowns.

"I just do it." I said.

"Well, I'm glad you do." She replied with a smile.

We casually said our goodbyes after that. She jetted off to class. I conquered two flights of stairs and limped back to my dorm where I conquered several more flights of stairs before snuggling up in bed with a couple of ice packs and some ibuprofen. I intended on watching an episode of Gilmore Girls to reward myself for getting out of bed that morning, but instead I started thinking about the conversation I'd just had.


Though I wish I had a better, more elaborate, or wildly descriptive answer to give, "I just do it," is the only one that can really sum up what it's like to live with a chronic illness. 

You see, I hadn't slept for more than an hour the night before because I was running a low grade fever as my poor little immune system attacked itself in true autoimmune fashion. I was wearing leggings for the fourth day in a row because every time I've worn jeans in the past two weeks has resulted in severe hip swelling and pain that just isn't worth looking cute for. I hadn't shaved my legs in days because it's been impossible to bend over with the morning stiffness that meets me each time I crawl out of bed. I hadn't washed my hair because doing so would not only force me to blow dry and straighten it, (two things that would force me to lift my arms up over my head for an extended period of time) but also because every time I've washed my hair lately, I've lost excessive amounts of it as a side effect of a medication I'm on. I was wearing my makeup from the day prior because it generally takes me about 15 minutes to apply a fresh coat...and that morning in particular, I'd chosen 15 minutes of potential sleep after spending the night wide awake and unable to. I'd missed my morning class because I physically could not get down from my lofted bed at 8am and I was leaving my biology lab early because the fermeldihyde from our pig dissections was triggering a migraine.

"I just do it" encompasses every last thing I just did my best to explain in that last paragraph. In fact, it encompasses even more. It would be easy to stay in bed, skip my treatments/medications, and ultimately give up. "I just do it" doesn't mean I'm Superwoman or even that I'm trying to be Superwoman...it just means that I've chosen to show up and accept the invitation I've been so graciously given to live. I guess the best way to describe it is that I've simply realized if I'm not living my life, no one will.

There are so many things in life we don't get to decide for ourselves...and at times, that seems awfully unfair. I can tell you right now, my "ideal" life would not incorporate disease, illness, or any sort of pain. If there was a way to rid of it, I certainly would. But since eradicating that pain isn't in my power, I like to try to find the beauty in it. My pain has given me a profound sense of vulnerability. This disease has allowed me to connect with individuals I might've never "met" otherwise. The word determination has taken on a whole new meaning since my diagnosis. What's beautiful about the seemingly unfair moments is that they're also the moments I get to search for purpose in. I want people to know that they can "just do it," too. I want people to know that they're not the only ones.

And if I can do those two things alone...well, I'm glad I do it too.

I don't know how many of you who read these diminutive posts suffer from chronic illness, but I do know that there are a few.

To begin this post, I'd just like to say thank you to those few in particular. Thank you for being the reason why I want to share my struggles with chronic pain caused by autoimmune disease. You are the reason I don't settle for the semblance of labeling myself insane. The support system I've found through YOU, others who experience this pain, has become such an essential weapon in my fight against this disease. There is just no possible way I could do it alone.

Today, I want to talk about the way I've been feeling in a way that I never have before. I don't know if I'll be able to find the adequate words to describe it, but I know there's a significant part of me that feels someone, somewhere out there, feels this way too...

I feel like a grenade, I guess. A ticking time bomb. As the possibility of inflammation spreading to my organs, joint replacement surgeries, and medications that'll make me lose my hair creep their way into conversations with my doctors... This feeling grows. It multiplies until it becomes overbearing. Now, I sit here typing, bruised, battered, and swollen from injections this week feeling trapped. Cornered. Completely ambushed.


In the past 6 months, I have felt and watched myself withdrawing from people who have been nothing but supportive since the day of my diagnosis. I have watched myself say "no" to hanging out with my best friends and hit the snooze button ten times because I am actually unsure if I can make it through another day without breaking down. I have watched myself neglect digging into God's word, singing worship songs, and even praying. My attitude has become one that says "save it." Don't save me, save it. Save yourself the hurt, because this disease...this pain...it is going to be the death of me one day.

I guess I feel wounded. Like I'm truly some sort of bomb waiting to explode. I can't help but imagine that when that happens, everyone around me is going to be left hurting and picking up the pieces. Blaming themselves for the tragic flaws within myself; things that were never fixable...and that devastates me to no end. That makes me want to unexist, if that makes any sense at all. It makes me want to minimize the casualties, per say.

I'm not depressed. I'm not suicidal. I just don't want to hurt people anymore. I want to lay in bed, listen to music, and read books. Occasionally, I want to go for a nice, long run. I want to pray and know that God will accept me into Heaven when the time comes. I don't want to be normal. I can't be normal when I feel like I'm some sort of hazardous weapon.

Truthfully, I know that no one else sees me this way. I know my friends would do anything at any hour of the day to make sure I'm comfortable. I know my team of specialists will do whatever they can to keep me comfortable. I know my teachers will sit and listen to me cry for a solid two hours afterschool if I need it. I know my family tries their hardest to understand the way I feel. I know all of that. But I don't feel it, I guess.


What I feel is as if there are constantly waves are washing over me and I'm left breathing...miraculously. Somehow. All the while, I'm watching everyone else go in and out of the water. They can walk. It almost appears as if they have received a choice while my feet are stuck in the submerged sand and the waves continue to rise and fall all around me.

I don't know when I started feeling this way, exactly. And I know it's a season that will pass. An insecurity the devil is feeding off of. My pain levels have been quite elevated and that always has a lot to do with my desire to step back from things. I'm trying so formidably to focus on the big picture. Thankfully, God gave me some vivid, definite hope last night when He spoke to me through a friend and said, "When you are suffering, child, you are so much closer to Me on the cross."

That reassurance is all I needed. I'm not some character in a book who suffers from a tragic flaw. I am not an unlovable or complicated teenage girl who comes with too much baggage. I am not a death sentence or someone who unpretentiously inflicts pain. I am not a hazardous weapon. I am a work of Christ, a work in progress, and He is far from finished with me yet.