Bravery is a short term thing.
Bravery is the adrenalin-fueled get-up-and-go, that keeps you moving through a crisis, because you know it's going to be over soon.
When I got sick I was brave. I faced the tests, and the diagnoses, bravely.
"Surely," I thought "this will all be over soon." We are used to movies, and stories with a crisis, and a dénouement. Things reach a peak of emotion, and then there is a resolution. The brave hero is rescued, or cured, and the crisis is averted, and everyone is allowed to resume their previous life.
Only it never ends. The illness doesn't end.
You have to keep getting up in the morning, and things don't change.
The adrenalin starts to fade, and the bravery starts to wane, as the realization sets in that there is no end in sight. Instead of being able to hope for relief, there is the realization that it is life that will have to change, instead of circumstances changing, and permitting life to resume.
Then the grief sets in. There is a period of shock during which you mourn the death of your previous life, your previous self, your previous existence, and your entire future.
One morning, you eventually realize that there are only a few options: continue to wallow in grief; end your life; try to build another life within these new limitations.
It is still sad, and there are lots of days in which I mourn my previous life. Maybe that will change. I hope so. There are still lots of days where I struggle with the choice I've made, feel like there isn't much of a future for me, and feel like so much of my life got stolen from my by this illness.
I am doing the best that I can. I am working to build a life for myself, despite being in pain all the time, and struggling with getting up, and struggling with my day-to-day life. It's a huge struggle.
It's not brave, though.
It's the condition of my every day life.
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