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It was amid this ongoing process that I realized I wanted to redo our wedding. Each day, we have worked on forgiving each other for our failings, our fears, our resentments, our human tendencies. My husband, by joining me for therapy sessions, is also working toward understanding my body and his reactions to its unpredictability. IвЂ™m working on listening to my body, resting when I need to without judgment, attempting a form of anger management toward my own self. Years after I began feeling like myself again, I received some comfort with an answer, a label to slap on the curious condition that plagued my body: myalgic encephalomyelitis/chronic fatigue syndrome (ME/CFS), a complex, under-researched illness that only left me with more questions. There have been flare-ups when I still have days, sometimes weeks, of that old poison in my veins. This isnвЂ™t to say that my body is entirely predictable.

Now married for eight years, I have mostly left that hollow body behind. As the illness ran its course, months of feeling unwell turned into weeks, then days, and finally the few hours here and there. Whatever my body was carrying around, refusing to let go, has forever tainted that day.ДЄfter our wedding, it took about a year to feel the strength of my body again. Looking back at photos from my wedding, I see the ghost of someone I didnвЂ™t know, someone who spooked me. I barely slept that night, my body churning, queasy from the marathon I put it through. But what I actually felt still haunts me - the sensation that I had gasoline coursing through my veins rather than healthy, robust blood. I danced and laughed like a healthy person. We sat at our own private table to eat dinner, my husband enjoying the farm-to-table steak while I pretended to enjoy mine, mostly pulling pieces of bread with my teeth.Д«y this time, I had become good at faking wellness. We were flung in chairs for the hora, connected only by a cloth dinner napkin that we held between our fingers.

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When the singerвЂ™s voice cracked on the high notes, we muffled our laughs against each otherвЂ™s bodies - me against his chest and him against my hair. We danced, one of his hands on my lower back, the other clasped in mine. Later, to the beat of вЂњEverlasting LoveвЂќ by the Black Keys, my husband and I entered the reception tent. Under the huppah, as I walked around my husband seven times, I prayed that he would learn to not fear the failing body circling him. The combination of Wellbutrin, Imodium and non-drowsy Dramamine I had taken, along with some adrenaline, got me through the day. I nibbled on a banana, picked mints out of a red Altoids can, smiled for photos and rested on the roomвЂ™s day bed before making my way to the ceremony. Instead of Champagne, my three best friends and I clinked glasses of ginger ale. Our wedding venue had a white farmhouse with a small room on the top floor where I got ready. The psychiatrist agreed to put me on Wellbutrin, an antidepressant that also promised increased energy. No doctor I had seen up to that point had offered me medicine to help with my symptoms, and I was desperate. Instead of throwing myself to the psychiatristвЂ™s feet and clinging to his ankles, I began to cry. вЂњI need something to help me feel normal.вЂќ вЂњNot knowing why IвЂ™ve felt this way - for so long - is making me depressed,вЂќ I told the psychiatrist that day in July a few months before my wedding, my voice cracking. But I remained a burden, an annoyance, a disappointment. The idea of postponing the wedding was dwarfed by the guilt of the time and money already spent by family, and perhaps dwarfed by the hope that my body would come to its senses just in time. At the age of 32, I began to hate my body.ДЇriends grew silent over my unreliability, my future husband visibly uneasy with the fear of what our marriage would look like with my failing body. I thought I found my cure, but my hopefulness was soon dashed when I didnвЂ™t improve much.

I was deficient, and required injections to get them back up. One doctor finally listened to the possible causes I had found after hours of online research, and agreed to check my B12 levels. That spring, I visited doctor after doctor, most of them shrugging at my unrelenting symptoms that by then should have dissipated. The Prozac didnвЂ™t make me feel healthier, either. I did as I was told, but my body remained stubborn. The nurse who called to inform me advised I rest for two weeks. In turn, after some insistence on my part, she agreed to order a mono test. The first doctor I went to, in January 2013, smiled smugly and said, вЂњYouвЂ™re just nervous about your wedding.вЂќ I agreed to go back on Prozac.

I had by then spent half a year trying to convince countless doctors that the weight loss, nausea and weakness I was experiencing were the result of something more than general anxiety.

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