I think I could be a great traveler. I’m willing to stay in back-packers or dingy hotels, I almost enjoy sleeping in airports, and I’ve learned over the years that the most awful experiences can result in the best stories. I’m a bargain shopper, a dedicated barterer and am determined to see as much as possible.
I could be a great traveler; but I’m not. Living with CFS means that my body doesn’t keep up with my dreams. I have been blessed to have traveled a lot during my illness, but I’m not very good at it.
I get easily nauseated, and struggle to eat foreign foods. I get motion sick in busses and cars and on boats and planes. I often run out of steam in the afternoons, and struggle to start in the mornings, and a lot of the time I dream about being home on my bed with a book.
I often wonder (especially as I embark on a trip) whether I should just give it up, but for some reason I keep going, even though it’s tough. I’m restrictive; I balance carefully the impact it will have on my health and my work, but still I don’t entirely give up.
I think it’s because while CFS affects me daily, it doesn’t define me. Traveling is part of the real me, not the sick me, and so I go, even though it’s often too hard to enjoy, because after all, I really could be good at it.