I’m watching Mortified Nation on Netflix. If you’re not familiar, it’s a fun doc where people share stories from their adolescent diaries and journals. It is highly entertaining and really, I don’t know, gives me some kind of validation for sharing my own journal entries. We’re human. We can relate to each other through shared experiences. I gladly share my experiences with you.

I never really know what I’m going to share until I start flipping through my many journals. I originally planned on sharing something more lighthearted in this post, but stumbled on this instead. This entry comes four months after finding out my transplant had failed. I was twenty two years old, and a party girl.


It’s amazing how quickly your life can change. In an instant things can take a three hundred sixty degree turn. I was doing well before. New friends, no boyfriend, parties, and then BAM, the next thing I know, I need a new kidney, for the second time around. The worst part is that I could, quite possibly, have to go through all of this again.

Sometimes I feel so alone. Actually, more than sometimes. Yet, I feel like I have to put on a happy face and pretend that everything is just peachy keen.

“How are you doing, Rachel?” They always ask. 

It’s like it’s programmed into me, “oh fine,” or “I’m good.” 

Well, I’m not good, goddammit! 

I’m not fine. I’m on dialysis. I have a tube hanging out if my stomach. I don’t have any kind of a social life because I’m chained to my bed every night around 9:00. I have to take pills for the rest of my life. I give myself a shot in the leg once a week. I have to follow a strict diet. I have two uterus’. The closest thing to sex in six months was a vaginal ultrasound. I have no money and no friends. But other than that, I’m just super, thanks for asking.

[ In the margin I have written: I’ve had things done to me that no person should ever have to go through. ]

If I actually told people the truth, they wouldn’t know what to do. They’d just stand there staring with their mouths hanging open, not knowing how to respond. Wanting desperately to run away. 

They can do that, run away, I can’t. I am constantly, forever, until I die, reminded that I’m sick. Even when the dialysis is gone and the tube is gone, I will forever have scars on my stomach, and pills to take, and doctors monitoring me very closely. Labs to be drawn and appointments to be made.

People just don’t get it, so they will continue to ask me how I’m doing and how I’m feeling, and I will continue to answer them in the same old way. Knowing in my heart that there are sunnier days ahead of me. All this is just temporary. 🙂


I tried to end it on a good note but it’s bullshit. Why do I lie to myself? This sucks.


I’m losing my hair. There’s nothing I can do about it.


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