First

My name is Rebecca Koshak. Two weeks ago today I was diagnosed with rheumatoid arthritis.

Yeah, me. Rheumatoid arthritis. I'm 21, a junior in college, supposedly my whole life ahead of me...and now this business.

Everyone tells me to take it easy, don't stress. Take life one day at a time. Don't drink a lot, don't smoke, and for God's sake, don't even think about ever playing sports again.

I'm supposed to be young and not care, but I guess I'm one of a million people. What's so special about little old me?

But it's me. Me. I'm kind of worried. And tired. And...oy.

I don’t know how I’m supposed to feel about this. I think I’ve felt every logical (and yes, some illogical) in the last two weeks. Two weeks feels like years. I wonder what a month will feel like.

Tonight is a bad night. It rained today, and my hands hurt while I’m typing this. I refuse to stop, so I have to deal with the pain regardless.

I wish I could be plain old normal, not have to deal with the pain and crippling I know is coming. I guess you could say I have my own personal thunderstorm waiting to break over me.

At the moment, I feel like I’m existing from point to point, minute to minute. Four hours till the next painkiller, take my other pill, take that pill, too. Maybe this’ll work…I don’t what I’ll do if it doesn’t. What will I do?

I wonder if I’ll be contemplating shots next year or whether I’ll be on a different, more volatile medication. Maybe stronger pain meds than the ibuprofen I’ve been hanging onto for the past two years.

Where will I be next year? I don’t even want to consider 5 or 10, so sticking with next year seems appropriate. I know no insurance company will want me for a little money-I have become expensive to keep.

Tonight I’m tired. Tonight I’m confused. Tonight I’m in pain and afraid and knotted up in a million different ways.

I want to start a diary-not a diary by any normal means. I want to start a diary of pictures of my hands, seeing how the (disease sounds so final and terrifying) how the disease takes my lovely, long, graceful fingers and turns them into pretzels (the stick kind)

Pain is my inheritance. I must endure. (so quaint. When the hell did I become quaint?)

I wonder if anyone will want to date me, Ms. Future Cripple of America (God BLESS the health system) or whether they'll go for pretty, healthy girls who aren't having finger pain when it rains a little bit.

That's all for tonight. My hands are starting to really protest.