Life In The Cupboard Under The Stairs

How do you learn to be satisfied with a life made small by chronic illness? It’s like Harry grew up at Hogwarts and then, in his early twenties, got shoved in a cupboard under the stairs for the rest of his life. His only comfort the knowledge of the spells he once cast, the friends he once had, the adventures they once shared. His only grief that now those things are gone. That’s what it’s like to be someone like me. I had a lifetime of hopes and dreams and plans and when illness put me in the cupboard I just had to pack them up and put them away.

It’s hard not to be bitter about ending up in the cupboard under the stairs. It’s harder still to be grateful, to look around and think, well, at least I still have plenty of cupboard. Because cupboard just isn’t enough. It’s not enough for anyone. We crave the open sky, we crave a life where we can feel fulfilled, we crave anything that is not being stuck in bed. Unable to do the things that make us feel like human beings now our human bodies have betrayed us. And unable to see a future that’s getting any brighter.

Imagine Harry in his cupboard, years after he thought he’d be free of it. They used to call him the Chosen One, but it’s been a long time since he was chosen for anything. His friends have long since stopped coming to visit him. Each day, the cupboard grows a little smaller, a little tighter around him; sometimes it grows spikes, like Miss Trunchbull’s Chokey. All he can do on days like that is ball himself up so the spikes don’t touch him and wait for the world to get easier. Curled up in a tight wad and trying to avoid pain, he thinks about the magical life he once had. He thinks about how he once defeated Voldemort and wonders why he can’t defeat this.

This isn’t really a story about Harry Potter. It’s about me, and my friends, and millions of other people worldwide. Millions of people trapped not in cupboards, but in beds, in darkened rooms, in homes. Trapped by a disease most doctors don’t even know or care exists. This is our story. But today I’m going to make it Harry’s story, because unlike the rest of us, I can make him happy just by writing him that way. I can make him cope like I wish I could cope. And maybe I can learn from his example.

So picture Sick Harry, unfolding his hopes and dreams and holding them to his chest. A reminder that he was once a person with purpose, a person who left footprints in the world. He holds them close, lets the memories sear across his brain. Then he packs them away again, because they are delicate, and they hurt to look at. He cries, but only a little, because tears take up too much room when you’re living this small. Then he hunkers back down, diving deep inside himself to avoid the dark and the spikes and the hurt. He’s good at this now. He did not choose to be in a cupboard, but having found himself there, he has adapted to life in a cupboard like water adapts to a glass. He looks for the things that can make a confined life beautiful. He makes himself comfortable in the little space he has. He can no longer change the world on a large scale, so he works hard to change what he can. He breathes. He practices kindness. He shows love to himself. He endures.