I’m from the hospital on Thanksgiving night,

from rolling into sleep and not waking up.

I’m from living in misery for one month—

the doctors promising I just had the flu.

I’m from drinking gallons upon gallons of water,

from fruity breath cascading from my mouth.

I’m from my mother breaking down in sobs,

while I’m carried up and down the stairs.

I’m from losing pounds upon pounds,

from one nap in my parents’ bed, the one nap that changed my life.

I’m from injecting a needle into my arm six times a day,

hearing peers complain over one shot at the doctor once a year.

I’m from sitting down at practice while my teammates sprint,

from stuffing my face with fruit snacks before I pass out.

I’m from stumbling with blurry vision,

my hands shaking uncontrollably.

I was from feeling weak,

from feeling different than my friends, family, and classmates.

I was from frowning, crying,

always two steps behind.

But now, I’m from feeling strong,

from feeling proud I’m alive.

I’m from doctors who were wrong— 

who almost took my life.

I’m from the disease that takes over my life.