Born in July of 1947, I was blessed with excellent health, both physically and mentally. Then in 1957 I took a sip of water from the glass of a friend that had mononucleosis, and the beginning of my 49 years of poor health began. No one knew I'd done such a stupid thing, nor did I. Not even the doctors at the Army hospital detected the repercussions of my mistake, and after numerous tests—none of which was for mono—I was dubbed a liar and sent to their psychiatrists.  The Army psychiatrists told my parents that I needed more discipline. So I started getting spankings each time I refused to go to school. They even sent my little dog, Sailor, to the pound when the spankings didn't get results. Running away only made things worse. I felt so alone and scared. No one believed me. . . not even my own flesh and blood.

Eventually my mother took me to a civilian doctor. He found that I had mono that was so bad by this time that it had basically devastated my immune system. Needless to say, I didn't get over it in the time they thought I should have. In fact, neither my body nor my life was ever the same.  I now had allergies, asthma and a list of food, drug and chemical sensitivities that grew longer with each passing day. Depression and panic attacks were soon added to the list as well.  I'd get flu after flu that always lasted longer than normal. I had unexplained aches and pains, and my mind was out of sorts, too. But, nothing compared to the time my symptoms got so bad that I was nearly totally nonfunctional for more than two years.

Getting through school was a struggle, and when I did, I felt so isolated. I had no lasting friendships because I couldn't keep up with anyone. No cheerleading. No clubs or school activities because of my limitations. I finally graduated from night school, alone. College was out of the question. A career was unheard of. So, there went my plans to become a veterinarian, a lawyer, an artist, a musician or any of the vocations for which I had a talent or desire.

And without being able to count on myself, much less hope to take care of a child, I even gave up a daughter. If only I could find her and explain. So much loss.

My social life was, and still is, a joke. Not being able to go places or do things that I want to do. Not being able to make plans because I never know how I'll be feeling. Up one day, down the next. Having to isolate during flu season and being petrified when I go shopping for fear of getting sicker. This frustrates family and friends alike.

I wanted to be around people, but I grew to be afraid of them; to hate them and their germs. . . and their abandonment. Envious of their abilities and their lives, I often wondered why I was born. I often wanted to die.

My doctor visits and hospital stays could have broken records, none of which yielded much benefit. The pills they prescribed caused such bad reactions that I eventually shut down entirely, with my bedroom being the extent of my world for several years. 

With the grace of God I finally decided to quit all the pills I was given, and, despite the withdrawal, tried to help myself. I began by trying to find out which chemicals and foods I was allergic to, moved away from the city’s pollution, had all my teeth pulled because of the mercury and the abscesses I kept getting. I even (reluctantly) got rid of my pet rabbits, hamsters, cats, birds and fish, although I refused to relinquish my dogs. This helped some.

As time passed I found that food was a very big enemy in my life and finally ended up having to eliminate all prepared foods, canned and restaurant foods, most sweets, all caffeine and just about everything I enjoyed eating. And even though I began to feel less toxic because of it, I also found that I had added even more limitations to my life.

When my CFS was diagnosed, I felt like I was finally going to get some relief, but I was wrong. I found the doctors ill-informed and often ill-mannered when I tried to share the knowledge I had gained over the years as to what I could, and couldn't, tolerate. I finally got so burnt out on these “professionals,” and fearful of their medications, that I left them entirely. Instead, I went and picked out a burial plot and made cremation arrangements. 

Michelle offers this candid shot that reflects the pain and isolation she feels living with CFS.

So why am I being so whiny? Because this is the only place that I felt that I could do so without being criticized.  Being the realist that I am, it's been difficult pretending that everything is okay, faking happiness and wellness, hiding my fears and loneliness and ignoring my losses just to try to fit into the normal world. I just want to “tell it like it is” for a change. That’s why, in addition to a posed photo of me, I’ve also included a candid shot taken a few years ago that shows how I really feel living with this devastating illness.

I truly resent having been made a prisoner with this disease, but I must admit that my limited freedom hasn’t bothered me as much as the lack of compassion from people who don’t understand the severity of this illness.

I hope that someday the public will become more informed about CFS so that the victims don't have to fight two battles: the disease itself and the doubts of others.