When I am feeling realistic and strong enough to face the cold, hard facts of life with ME, I admit to myself that it will be almost impossible for me to ever run and cycle again. Yet, in spite of these rare and brutal moments of honesty, which are genuine, I don't think I have ever said it and truly meant it. There is still a part of me - some days a big part, other days a very small, humble part - that believes that I will eventually feel healthy enough to run again. This, in spite of the indisputable fact that in the middle of March of this year, I went out for a run (my first in more than three years) of a mere four hundred yards.... and spent four days of the following week on the couch, absent from work, crippled with fatigue and blunted by pain.
I can't let go. I won't let go. Rightly or wrongly, I still hope for a better future. I still believe that I can have my old life back. Is it this hope that is ironically holding me back from further recovery? Or is it this hope that helps me to get out of bed each day and say to this cruel illness: "Go fuck yourself. I've had the worst of you and I'm still here, still standing. I will not be beaten. No matter how long it takes".