Page 246 of Toxic Kiss

“Alright, alright,” I mutter, smirking at the screen. “You animals are blowing this up tonight.”

The chat is flooded with “We missed you. How are you feeling? Are you really okay now?”

I drag a hand over the back of my neck.

“Okay, first—no, I’m not magically cured of my asshole nature. Hate to break it to you.” A few laughing emojis fly up. “Lupus doesn’t get fixed. There is no cure. I can’t take a pill and be good to go.”

Shifting forward, I rest my elbows on my knees.

“It’s… unpredictable. That’s the best word for it. Some days, I wake up and feel like I can take on the world. Other days?” I shrug. “My joints ache, my head pounds, and I’m so damn tired I can’t move. And that’s with the right meds. That’s why we’ve reduced the number of shows on a tour. I can’t overdo it.”

The comments slow just a fraction.

“But here’s the thing no one really talks about with any autoimmune disorder…”

I love these lives. It took a little persuasion from Haven, but I see the benefit in sharing my story and my struggle.

“You can look fine while your body tries to shut itself down from the inside out. That messes with your head more than anything.”

A comment catches my eye.

“How did you know something was wrong?”

“How did I know something was wrong? That’s a good one.”

I blow out a breath.

“It took a really long time for me to recognize it for what it was. I thought what everyone around me thought. I was burning the candle at both ends. Touring, drinking, and not sleeping. Then I got addicted to cocaine and landed in rehab. I figured I deserved to feel like shit. That this was just the norm for the lifestyle.” I let out a bitter laugh. “Turns out my immune system had started attacking me instead. That’s part of the reason I was self-medicating in the beginning. It was a really fucked up mess. The doctors didn’t see it either and kept telling me things that didn’t make sense. I knew something wasn’t right that there was more going on. You know deep down.”

A few comments pop up—Same. I thought I was crazy, and no one believed me.

“That,” I say, pointing at the screen. “Right there. That’s why I started doing these lives and sharing my story.”

I sit up straighter, more serious now.

“Too many people get told it’s in their head. Too many people get brushed off because they look fine. Meanwhile, you’re sitting there wondering if you’re losing your mind because no one can see what’s happening inside your body, but you can fucking feel it.”

I shake my head.

“Not anymore.”

My voice drops, steady.

“You’re not crazy. You’re not weak. And you’re not alone in it.”

The comment section explodes again with hearts, thank you, and stories.

I swallow past the knot in my throat.

“Another thing,” I add, rubbing my chest absently. “Stress makes it worse. Big time. Flares hit harder when you’re running on empty, pushing too hard, and pretending you’re fine when you’re not.”

I pause and smirk into the camera.

“Ask me how I know.”

A few laughing comments roll in, but I can feel the understanding behind them.

“Now I actually listen when my body tells me to slow down. Which,” I chuckle, “is a work in progress because I’m still me. And I have an amazing woman who kicks my ass when I’m getting to that point.”