Lupus Detention House -

But you can change the nature of the sentence. Over the years, I have learned that while I cannot unlock the cell door, I can paint the walls.

There is a specific kind of exhaustion that comes from living in a detention house. Not the kind you see in movies—with orange jumpsuits and metal clanging—but the kind that lives inside your cells. I call my body the Lupus Detention House .

Plaquenil (Hydroxychloroquine) is the silent guard. It stands in the corner, doing its job quietly, trying to calm the riot. I don't see it working, but I know the horror stories of what happens when it leaves. lupus detention house

One more day survived is one more day the warden didn't win. Disclaimer: This blog post is based on personal metaphor and experience. Lupus affects everyone differently. If you are struggling with a chronic illness, please consult your rheumatologist or a mental health professional.

I fight for one good hour. One pain-free meal. One laugh that doesn't hurt my ribs. If you are reading this and you recognize these walls, I see you. I see you dragging your heating pad like a security blanket. I see you tracking your rashes and your fevers like a lawyer tracking evidence. But you can change the nature of the sentence

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So, I am locked inside. The warden is my immune system. The crime? Simply existing. In a traditional detention center, you know the rules. Don't fight. Don't run. Do your time. In the Lupus Detention House, the rules change by the hour. Not the kind you see in movies—with orange

You learn to walk on eggshells in a house made of landmines. The cruelest part of this detention isn't the joint pain or the "brain fog" that makes me forget my own zip code. It’s the solitary confinement.