My poor dad thought I was crying because I was struggling to put the civic into gear without stalling the car.

It was my second time driving and the first time I made it to second gear. We’d been practicing for about a half an hour and I decided I was ready to get sushi and watch a movie so we switched spots and headed out of the parking lot and turned homeward.

Never low on topics to discuss (my family is notoriously chatty), my dad and I bantered back and forth about “feeling” the car and “listening” to what the engine is telling you. (Fun fact: we’ve watched every season of the British hit auto show “Top Gear” so we know fancy car talk.)  And in a moment of weakness I confessed to him that I wanted a car of my own. And of course, he immediately put that hope to the guillotine, reminding me that a cheap working car is at least $5-10,000 plus insurance plus gas and repairs and so on.

“But it would be about more than just the car,” I clumsily argued, trying to figure out what I was even trying to get across. “I think it would be an emotional freedom.”

“Alright Keira what the frickity frack that’s ridiculous.”

(That’s not what my dad said but I saw it on his face while I, at the same time, was thinking that exact thought.)

“I mean, like, I don’t know. I just…” Yeet.

“A car would be about freedom, about being an adult. Not having to rely on everyone to get me around or argue over who gets the cars what days. I don’t have anything that’s mine. I don’t have any control over my situation. This could be a really good segue for me into adulthood. Responsibility. Ya know?”

My father, still obviously confused by my mentality responded with a delayed “yeah…” and an enthusiastic head nod. Attempting to encourage me he reminded me that all young people have to drive their parent’s cars at some point until they can afford their own. “I had to be able to pay for insurance to be allowed to have a car, I worked a paper route and saved up money.”

“But dad a job just isn’t a possibility for me. I don’t have that kind of energy or that kind of time. I…”  As my volume rose and my voice started to crack he tried to interject with “I know…that’s okay…” of equally rising volume, causing me to fall silent, feeling defeat and emotion rising rapidly in my throat in its signature constricting, sour fashion.

I knew very well that continuing to speak was only going to result in tears so I tried my best to end the conversation by hoping he’d change the subject.

He didn’t.

“A car just isn’t an option. That’s gonna have to be that.”

I tried so hard to stop my lip from trembling and I blinked furiously, willing the hot tears to evaporate. “You are /so/ not crying in front of your dad about a car Keira freaking Marie don’t you dare.” I should probably consider other methods of self-comforting because this did zero good. And a big movie worthy tear took its sweet old time strolling down my face, parading around my cheekbone and chin before finally plopping dramatically into my lap.

Awesome.

My dad instantly turned back into a teenage boy that has zero clue what to do about crying girls and quickly stumbled over his words. “You’ll, you’ll get it. It’s just… It’s just practice. Don’t worry, you’ll get it, don’t worry. You’ll get it.”

And after a seemingly eternal pause he blurted “Let’s go get sushi. That’ll be good.”

The sushi was indeed good. And dead Bruce Willis had me good and spooked in “The Sixth Sense.”  (My dad and I have this goofy tradition where when my brother and mom are out of the house we eat sushi and watch rated R action movies. Or in this case spooky movies.) I ended up having a great time hangin’ with my old man, and my seemingly childish meltdown kindly faded to the back of my mind.

But being the over critical individual I am, I remember every embarrassing thing that has ever happened in my life. (Like this one time in second grade I wore snow pants under my uniform skirt and accidentally pulled it all down in the hallway outside my classroom. In front of my teacher.)

I was mortified I had this kind of reaction to a /material/ desire. It was a /car/? Not Willy Wonka’s magic ticket of infinite joy and wonder?? Could you be any more selfish? Don’t you know how much /time/ you take from your family? Don’t you know how much /money/ you cost? Between medical bills and your three week stay in the Cleveland clinic?? Between your stupid belief in retail therapy and that new pair of shoes you thought would make you feel better?  Between your shifting interests and the oh so necessary supplies needed to appease your 2-month fascination with knitting or oil painting?? Do you have any freaking idea how much /energy/ it takes to put up with you? With your violent mood swings and terrible temper when you don’t feel well?

Yes, I know those things. And those things are the things that keep me awake at night. And those are the things that pull me inward and away from my family and my friends.

I think the hardest thing about chronic illness is the fact you can’t do the things you want to do. No matter how bad you want to do it.

Pain is debilitating because pain isn’t subtle. Pain demands your attention, and it clouds your vision and shackles you to your limitations. The once necessary becomes luxury; getting out of bed and showering every day. Taking a walk or reading a book. Cooking dinner with your family or going out with friends on a Friday night. The things that were once so important in our lives become seemingly impossible tasks. Ripped from our grasp with no conceivable way to win them back.

We find purpose in the doing. Who doesn’t?? Success is a measure of your devotion, of your ability. The more lives you touch, the closer you get to your dreams, the better you are doing for yourself, for the world, and for God.

And this mindset is so beautifully disguised and paraded and beheld as truth, but in its rawest form it is the most damaging measuring stick we can hold up to ourselves.

It takes ambition and twists it into self-hatred.

And what person whose body restricts them to their bed, whose body keeps them from achieving work and school, what person whose body keeps them from /living the life the world tells us we ought to live/, what person doesn’t find self-hatred thriving in our moments of grief?

I know I do.

I blame my body from keeping me from growth. From keeping me from seeing beauty in my world. I blame my body for cutting off community and for keeping me from the things I love. My body keeps me from becoming a stronger more experienced person. My body takes away my ability to keep a job, it robs me of opportunities to be a good friend and a good sister and a good daughter.

My emotion over hearing that I wasn’t going to have my own car wasn’t about material disappointment. It was my self-hatred with its massive shoulders thrown back towering above me, screaming with such force his veins were popping out of his forehead and spit flying all over my face with every word. Reminding me once again of everything I have failed at because of my body. Reminding me of all the things I should have achieved, and all the things I am missing because of my fatigue and pain and anxiety.

I was broken because it was just another bullet point on my infinite list of things I’ve failed to measure up to. Things that are supposed to simple; keeping a job, getting my driver’s license, getting a car and paying for insurance or gas. These are things that literally every teen in the country does no problemo.

I was broken because it was another bullet point on the “reasons Keira is a Freaking Burden to Her Family” list. It’s because of the years of doctors and expensive medication with no end in sight that we don’t have money for a car or the family vacation we haven’t taken in years.

I was broken because not only is my body a burden to me, but also a burden to those dearest to me.

My mom loves jewelry; when the Sundance catalog comes in the mail the two of us sit down and gawk at the wearable artwork and the accompanying price tags. I go back and circle the things that make her ooh and ah and swear every time “This Christmas. Or this birthday or this Mother’s Day, I’ll get her one with my money. She works her ass off for me, the least I can do is a ring, right?”

And after every birthday, after every Mother’s Day she reveals to me she feels unappreciated and unseen and my guilt grows deeper and my resolve stronger. But still I never quite have the money or the timing right.

It seems inconceivable that we should allow ourselves grace. It seems unreasonable that we ought to remove the damning evidence from our viewing lens. It seems disgusting and wrong that God might suggest we view our failures as some kind of success.

But what if we did?

How, practically, might that work? How might that change our lives? What if instead of comparing my list of goals to my meager progress, I allow God to show me how I’ve met His goals?

Living a life full of self-hatred cannot and will not end in happiness. So why the hell do I cling so firmly to my garbage knowing full well it holds nothing for me?

I don’t know. Humans don’t always make sense. Shocker, right?

And I don’t know how to change humans, or how to change myself. I don’t know how to throw out the mindset being force-fed to me by society since I entered preschool. I don’t know how to love my failure and I don’t know how to let go of my goals.

But I know a guy who does.

It doesn’t matter how old you are, it doesn’t matter if you have chronic pain or a perfectly healthy body, it doesn’t matter if you’re here because of a family member or you’re here because you relate. It doesn’t matter if you have a great job or you are failing in school. Everyone is going to miss their mark. And it will always result in grief.

This blog isn’t just for people with chronic pain, it isn’t just for white women who like to craft or for people who like Jesus. It’s for people who experience grief and failure. It’s for people disappointed in themselves and in the people around them. It’s for anyone who has that growing sense of claustrophobia in their small life.  Anyone desperate for something different but no clue where to start looking.

Functionalish is you and me (and me mum. Hey mum.) learning to see ourselves in a different light. Learning to see failure as a chance to grow rather than a testament to our failed character. Learning to see our lives not as we perceive them, but how the God, who created our infinite universe and every single one of 10,000 trillion ants on our planet, sees beauty and success and triumph in our paths.

Functionalish is a journey to change minds.

We already have lives worth living and songs worth singing and mountains worth climbing. I don’t know about you, but I desperately want to have that understanding.  

And I’m going to work for it.

Here, with you.  

You and I—changing our understanding about things like failing and independence and self-hatred and cars and driving and not driving…

together.

anxiety chronic fatigue chronic pain depression family grief independence loss school