Perhaps it was bold to give my college creative writing class a short story about bloody diarrhea, but it was all I felt capable of writing about at the time. I was twenty-one, in the process of being diagnosed with ulcerative colitis, a chronic and angry gut inflammation condition that, as I understood it, would constantly affect my quality of life for decades to come. The situation was almost impossible to accept, especially because it was largely invisible. Looking at me, no one could tell I was sick, but each minute of the day was attuned to the reality of the illness: Would my stomach hurt too much to go to class? Would I be late because I couldn’t get out of the bathroom? Would I get trapped on the MTA and end up humiliating myself on a train car when I couldn’t stop myself from defecating?
And so, as I had before when things were difficult, I turned to writing.