
I tend to view myself in phases of my life: the little girl, too full of curiosity and oddly shaped clothes. The preteen who is suddenly, deeply aware of the fact that she exists in this world and other people can see her. The teen who shrunk quite like Alice did when she drank the bottle labeled “drink me” and cried herself into something that can fit through a keyhole or door’s mouth. The sickly 21-year-old celebrating legality with a new medication infusion instead of sugared-up vodka. The now adult who wants to believe she finally is figuring things out, but has found that the version she wishes to be is still quite the opposite of the soft spoken sweet silhouette of a body that my brain follows around.
There are a lot of labels I can fit myself into. I am an INFJ. I am a Libra. I’m an Enneagram 4w5. I love taking obscure personality quizzes that give me even more labels. I think it’s because I’m still figuring out how I perceive myself. Maybe I can’t quite tell you who I am, but I can tell you what is real about my life and my death.
I am going to die. Well, my liver is. But technically speaking yours will too. We all die. But when I was fifteen I was diagnosed with a rare degenerative liver disease called Primary Sclerosing Cholangitis. A mouth full, I know. It’s PSC for short, and while I could use this space to write an academic paper on the medical ins and outs of this disease, all that really matters is there’s no cure, no treatment, and it kills. It’s been hard not to let something so massively life changing not leak into every aspect of my identity. I am a woman, and I am sick. I am a student, and I am ill. I am a daughter, and I have to be cared for. I am a girlfriend, and I feel like a burden. Everywhere I turn there is a reflection that says I am dying a lot faster than you are.
Being diagnosed with such a scary illness makes an existentialism speed-run quite possible in a few short years. Who am I if I am not alive? What do I want to do for a living? What is the purpose of working towards anything if I might not live to see the fulfillment of it? Does my cat love me the way I love him? What is the point of writing these words for you to read? What is writing? How much longer do I have left? How is my brain reading and writing at the same time? When is my next dose? My next doctor’s appointment?
This line of dreadful thinking is just as degenerative as my disease state. I didn’t want to become a victim to my illness. I know I will die, but so will all of us. The real victory is not letting it destroy and consume what I have left of life. After my parents’ divorce, I found myself more motivated than ever to become something greater than the damaged goods my body left me in. So who am I if not this sick girl?
I’m not quite sure if I should explain what I want to be, what I think I am, who my peers see me as, my Mom’s opinion that makes me, her “tweet pea,” out to be a princess with a sword and book in hand. (Hi, Mom. I know you’re reading this, I love you.) Or maybe my Dad’s version of me that probably includes the words “demonic” “disrespectful” and or “evil”. (Yes, unfortunately, I’m so serious. And no, don’t worry, I am not in contact with him.) What do they say? Everyone is the villain in someone else’s story? Something like that. I think somehow I am all of these versions of myself. I’m still the little girl with her ducky blanky. I am still the boyish kid running to catch up to my older brother and his friends. I am most definitely the very strange child who proudly wore the shirt with a puffy paint drawing of her cat wearing a crown like everyday of fifth grade. I am a teacher to small children and also a student myself. I am quite the introvert, but I get very bold and very loud when I feel that anyone might need me or there is even the slightest sort of injustice. I am always looking for something new to learn about. I still love cats. I am chronically ill, and I am going to die. But since I am still here, you must endure these words. It is a privilege to even be able to consider what I am and how you might think of me. Therefore, I would like to reduce myself to the only thing which allows me to be all of this: alive.

Abigail Palmer (she/her) is a current English student at the University of Tennessee. Born in the north but raised in the south, she has always had a place in the in-between of things. In between reader and writer, student and teacher, chronically ill and healthy–she is seeking to defy such labels to become whoever, wherever, however she desires to be. That currently looks like a preschool teacher, beloved (of course) daughter, adored (obviously) girlfriend, up-and-coming cat mom, and a forever nominee of the “Super Opinionated” award. If she’s not incessantly analyzing every piece of media she consumes, she’s probably intellectualizing her feelings while making ultra specific playlists that no one can relate to but her! You can find her on Instagram @zer0cooll.












