My Experience Being Invisibly Disabled

Welcome back to Musings of an Arthritic Artist! Today I'm going to talk about what my experience being invisibly disabled is. 

This is basically a storytime post where I discuss what it's like being invisibly disabled and the comments you can get from other people who don't understand.

With that being said, let's get into the post!

King, Alexandria. Musings of an Arthritic Artist. 2021.

Being invisibly disabled is both good and bad. When I say that, I don't mean that being disabled (invisibly or visibly) is ever a 100% good thing, but seeing as most people who are disabled don't have a choice, it isn't all bad. Being invisibly disabled means that you don’t “look disabled,” so you can go out in public and 'look normal.' However, the con about being invisibly disabled is the same as the pro. 

On one hand, you look normal, so you're seen as normal and 100% healthy by society. But when you actually try to use your disability benefits, since you don’t “look disabled,” you’re called out for not being disabled and taking the benefits away from people who need it by people who don’t realize that people who are disabled (wheelchair or not) do need them. 

I have one story where someone didn’t know how to handle my disability and two where my family and I were told that we shouldn’t/couldn't park in a handicapped parking spot because no one in the vehicle “looked disabled.” Both of these happened when I was a child, so these stories are at least nine years old.

I’ll try to go in order, but since these happened when I was between the ages of 5 and 9, my memory may be flawed on the order.

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The one that counts in the first category (didn’t know how to handle disability) happened when I was in first grade. My first grade teacher was used to dealing with normal kids. I don’t blame her for that. I don’t think there were that many kids at my school that were disabled, if any. I’m 99.9% sure I was the only one in my class. 

For homework every day, we would get five new vocabulary words. We were supposed to write each word down five times so it could be memorized. Not long into the school year (I don’t remember the month, though it couldn’t have been into the school year that far since I only lasted about 2 1/2 months), we were given a reading log. We were supposed to write down the books we’d read then turn it into the teacher. 

As I’ve mentioned in multiple posts now, I have arthritis in my wrists, which used to make writing incredibly difficult. I can write longer now, but at the time, my hand couldn’t handle more than the work done at school and the homework. Due to this, my mother would write my reading log. 

The teacher found out when I turned it in because the writing didn’t fit that of a six year old. My teacher basically told my mom that she wasn’t allowed to write my reading log because the student was supposed to do it. This wasn't really resolved. It was just kind of ignored, but it wasn't ever brought up again.

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The first story in the second category (shouldn't/couldn't park in a handicapped space) happened out-of-town. Technically, I wasn't present when this incident occurred. My mother and I had already gone up the hotel room where we were staying to wait. My father and sister had gone down to unload the vehicle. 

While they were unloading everything onto a hotel cart, an older man came over to them and said that they had no right to park in the handicapped parking because neither of them looked disabled. Either my sister or dad said that the disabled passenger (me) was in the hotel room upstairs. 

I don't know if the man expected a physically disabled (though not wheelchair using) person/child to carry their own bags into the hotel or what. He meant well, but fell incredibly short. From what I heard, he seemed to be very accusatory, too, though I wasn't there. However, I do trust my sister and father, because they would not have made this up. Even though I wasn't there, I know this 100% happened.

When my family and I go out-of-town, we have a system. We pull up to the hotel and go under the covering. My father will check in. After that, we'll park--usually in a handicapped parking unless none are available--and enter the hotel with only our personal bags and items (purses, cameras, and other accessible electronics). We'll check out the hotel room. After that, one of three things will usually happen. 

All four of us will go back outside to unload the vehicle, my sister and I will stay in the hotel room while our parents unload the vehicle, or my mother and I will stay in the hotel room while my dad and sister unload the vehicle (this is the scenario that happened in this story). That's pretty much the end of that story. It's pretty short and simple.

As I mentioned before, I wasn't present for this. I only know about it because my sister and father told us about it when they went back up to the hotel room where my mom and I were waiting.

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The second story happened in my hometown. I haven't really gotten told anything about my disability or plates where I'm from, but I also don't go out in public often enough to be told anything. I also haven't been told anything very recently. Again, all of these stories are at least a decade old.

My family and I were headed to watch a Christmas light show in a local neighborhood. Because the street is normally blocked off, people have to park a little outside the neighborhood. There was a temporary disabled parking lot for this multi-night event. 

Since I have plates, the first thing we did was pull up to the lot, which was tended by either an officer or security guard, or somebody else. I don't remember. 

The first thing we were asked when we pulled up was "Do you have a wheelchair?" or "Is there anyone here who requires a wheelchair?" or something along those lines. We told them no. After this, we were told we couldn't park there because there was no one in our vehicle who fit the (stereotypical) "disabled" mold.

As someone who hates being the center of attention, this annoyed me. I was only about 7-9 at this time, which meant I was even more self-conscious than I am now. I had gotten my plates a minimum of a few months before, the max being a couple years. My mom explained that not all disabilities are visible and require wheelchairs. 

At the conclusion of that conversation, we were allowed to park there. I remember getting out and just wanting to disappear. I tried to shrink in on myself. I didn't want to be there anymore. The show was amazing as always, but the build up to it stressed me out. 

As an invisibly disabled person, there are few things I hate more than having to 'prove my disability' to a stranger or being told I don't "look disabled" just because I'm young and can walk. Oh yes, remind me of how my body sometimes likes to attack itself so fiercely that it can make walking difficult (or downright impossible), yet society will never believe me because it isn't visible and I look 100% healthy. 

Remind me of how I could barely write as a child and keep up with schoolwork because my hands hurt and my mind was unable to focus because of my diet and the medications I was on, but some strangers don't believe me because they don't know me. They don't live in my body, so they have no clue. 

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Disability is much more than using a wheelchair. Disability is limited mobility or debilitating pain that lasts a while and can make doing everyday tasks difficult and painful. I don't want to be disabled. I don't want these "benefits." And before anyone tells me to look on the bright side, or abandon calling myself disabled because it's a "dirty and negative word," that's not going to work. 

The truth is, I'm disabled. I always will be, but the level of disability can and will fluctuate and wane, though it will never go away. How much I need resources and my plates depends--and will always depend--on how well I feel and how well my body feels. The "benefits" I have aren't wants. They're needs. Needs that I needed as a child, and only occasionally need now. 

I think the worst part of these comments is that what people don't realize (this is just me; I can't speak for other people with invisible disabilities) is that when my family and I use my plates, we rarely use the van accessible handicapped spots. The only time we will is when there are no other spots available, or when those are the only type of handicapped parking spaces in the entire lot. 

In case you don't know, van accessible spots are the handicapped spots that have an extra white or yellow paint lined spot directly beside them. They're used for wheelchair users, either by wheelchair lifts that are built in to a vehicle or by a passenger with a manual wheelchair.

Occasionally, they are annoyingly--and illegally--used as a parking space for ignorant/inconsiderate people. There have been a few times where we've told an employee or manager about someone parked across handicapped spots, in the lined space used for wheelchair, and a car parked in two handicapped spots. All of these three things I just mentioned are ten times worse than someone who doesn't "look disabled" parking in a handicapped space. 

I don't go up to potentially invisibly disabled people and tell them they can't park in a certain spot. I definitely don't have the right to ask for someone's proof of disability. It's very rude. We don't have to prove anything to society, especially not everyday passersby. My body has reacted this way since I was a baby. I was there when I was certified disabled. I watched as the old plates on my family's vehicle were replaced with my new disabled ones. 

I was the infant who couldn't crawl, so I scooted around the house on my bottom. I was the child who spent many years being unable to walk for long (or even short) periods of time. I was the child who looked normal and healthy, but if you knew me, you wouldn't see me as "normal" and 100% healthy. I'm mostly healthy, but I could afford to gain a few more pounds and I'm in the middle of a flare. 

To this day, I can't crawl/go around on my hands and knees like a 'normal' person. Since a child I have crawled similarly to how a gorilla does, meaning that I crawl using my knuckles, not the palms of my hands. To clarify, I use my distal and middle phalanges.

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The point is, I may be able to walk, and I may look normal to society (though at this point, what even is normal?), but I am disabled. Being invisibly disabled is hard. You have to deal with pain, guilt, and stress, among other things. The amount of emotional and mental hurdles you have to overcome while also dealing with physical pain is more than most people would like to have to handle. The last thing we need is people (good intentions or not) policing the handicapped spots. 

We know we don't fit society's picture/stereotype of disability, but it doesn't mean we're any less deserving of resources and accommodations. Society doesn't determine who is and isn't disabled. If society did, many people would struggle even more than they do now. Resources would be scarce and only accommodate certain people, if that. 

What about autistics? What about arthritics? Epileptics? Disabled veterans who aren't in wheelchairs? Diabetics? What happens to all of them? Are they undeserving of resources because they don't "look disabled?" I deeply hope that nobody who reads this would answer yes. 

The truth is, there are some people out there who'll tell the family of a disabled arthritic child that their kid can't be disabled or can't have arthritis because they don't have a wheelchair, arthritis is only for old people, and they're too young for that. 

One of the worst parts is that the U.S. estimates that about 25% of Americans have a disability (invisible and visible), and of that 25%, at least 20% are estimated to have invisible disabilities. Most people who are disabled don't use mobility aids such as wheelchairs, crutches, or canes. 

That means that an estimated 5% of that 25% uses something that automatically pegs them--by society--as disabled, yet those of us who make up the majority of disabled Americans are shunned and pushed to the side because we don't look disabled. Fact of the matter is, you're more likely to meet someone with an invisible disability than you are to meet someone with a disability that is visible.

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The life of an invisibly disabled person is hard. Between mental, emotional, and physical struggles, life is difficult enough. Add in the words of a stranger telling you that you can't be disabled, and suddenly, life feels a lot worse. 

Some people may be able to shrug these words off, and maybe someday even I'll be able to. But when I experienced these things (mind you, these stories are positively tame compared to some other people's) as a child, they hurt. 

They made me doubt whether I was disabled enough to call myself disabled, even though I was certified disabled when I was 6. They made me doubt telling anyone I had arthritis, because "only old people get that." 

Even now, I sometimes don't like parking in a handicapped spot (even if I need it) because I don't want to be told anything. Even now, I hate parking in handicapped lots because I don't want to be seen as an impostor and someone who's stealing the benefits from others. 

I don't like sitting on the benches or chairs in restaurants when waiting for a table because I don't want to be seen as an inconsiderate teenager, even if my legs hurt. I'm a highly sensitive person, which makes hearing these comments hurt even more. 

As I mentioned before, I haven't been told anything about my disability or arthritis in about a decade, but I still remember these memories, and how much pain and guilt I felt when I heard them. No disabled child (or adult) should have to hear these things. No invisibly disabled person should hear that they can't be disabled because they aren't in a wheelchair. 

As a child, I shouldn't have felt guilty because I looked normal but my body wasn't. I shouldn't have felt guilty for something I had no control over. This is how my body is, and no one should feel guilty for using benefits they need. I didn't ask for my body to be this way. I didn't cause this. This is pretty much how I was born, and there's no changing it. 

Sometimes I need handicapped parking spots. Sometimes I can't walk as long as I can on other days, and that's okay. I may not "look disabled," but it doesn't make me need resources less. It doesn't make me inferior to those whose disabilities are visible.

I wish I could tell my younger self that none of those people's words mattered--that they didn't know me, and that I shouldn't have felt guilty. But I know that even if I could, it wouldn't mean anything. I still would've felt guilty. I still would've felt like an impostor. I still would've felt hurt. 

At the end of the day, my body will never 100% change, and nor will my sensitive soul. 

That's it for this post! I hope you enjoyed it! 

Until next time,

Lexi K🖌

Book Review: The Cold is in Her Bones by Peternelle Van Arsdale (spoiler-free review)

Welcome back to Musings of an Arthritic Artist! Today I'm going to be doing a book review. This review is for The Cold is in Her Bones by Peternelle Van Arsdale.

I won an ARC of this book through Goodreads back in 2019. The premise itself was promising, so I entered and I won.

Let's get into the review!

I received an ARC of this through a Goodreads giveaway back in December 2018. Once I saw that this book was based on the myth of Medusa, I immediately signed up to win an ARC, given my love of Greek mythology and mythology in general. I'll begin with a synopsis before I get into my thoughts.

Milla is the main protagonist of the story. She's sixteen, tries her best to be well-behaved, and is good at pretending to be something she's not. She struggles with the responsibilities put on her and wants to be a well-behaved girl, even if her mother looks at her as if disappointed. She's never been allowed to go to the village, even though her brother, Niklas, is allowed to. Milla knows to salt the windowsills and she knows why, but she doesn't know the story behind it.

When a girl from the village named Iris comes to live next door with her grandparents, Milla finds a friend. Iris is meant to become Niklas' partner eventually, as well as Milla's future sister-in-law. However, when Iris begins acting strange, Milla's world changes. Iris is taken away by her brother and father.

A demon had placed a curse not too many years ago on the village and its outskirts. The demon gets inside girls' heads, possessing them, making them yell nasty things at everyone, and making them believe their families are the monsters. They are taken to "The Place," a place in the village for 'demon girls,' as they are called, as well as a place for girls who behave badly, whose parents are afraid they'll become demon girls themselves.

Milla leaves her home and family to look for Iris. There is only one problem. She must save Iris, eradicate the curse, and keep her family away from harm, along with becoming a demon in the process.

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First, I'm going to discuss plot. The plot I found very intriguing. I didn't think I needed to know more than the author provided. The book, in my opinion, was very straightforward and easy to understand. The writing was simplistic, yet descriptive. It wasn't the most amazing writing ever, but seeing as this is Peternelle Van Arsdale's second book, it's written very well. She's still a fairly new author, so I thought this was written very well. The story itself was very simple.

Next, let's discuss characters. Even though the story mainly focuses on Milla and Iris, I really enjoyed Milla and Niklas' relationship. I found their sibling dynamic amazing to read, and I would arguably say that theirs is one of my favorite relationships in this book, if not my favorite. In my opinion, it's just so realistic. I've read a lot of books with sibling dynamics, and I think this is one of my favorites.

Niklas is the protective older brother who looks out for his sister's well-being, while also teasing her and being her best friend until Iris comes along. Milla is the little sister who loves her brother and does things wrong, while he is the one who tends to get her out of trouble. If this doesn't define my relationship with my sister, I don't know what does.

Another thing I want to discuss is this cover. The colors are gorgeous. I love the composition. It's a gorgeous cover, and looks really great with the other books I own. The girl on the cover who's supposed to be Milla is gorgeous. 

The last thing I'm going to discuss is the Greek mythology aspect of this book. I've researched a lot of the Greek myths, particularly after reading Percy Jackson and the Olympians by Rick Riordan. This book is inspired by the myth of Medusa. It's important to note that this novel was based and inspired by the myth of Medusa. It isn't a retelling.

You can definitely see influences of the myth in this novel, but it isn't a retelling, which means there is no Medusa, Poseidon, or Athena like in the classic myth. Despite that, I thought the story was very original and creative. I've definitely never read anything quite like this. It is very simple, but it's fun and enjoyable.

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Overall, I loved the story. I thought it was told well. The plot was very straightforward and enjoyable. The characters were relatable and likeable, as well as realistic. I didn't believe it tried too hard. I was never confused by what was happening. I'm glad I own a copy of this book. I'll definitely read it multiple times. 

I rate The Cold is in Her Bones 5 out of 5 stars.

That's it for this review! I hope you enjoyed it! 

See you Thursday, 

Lexi K🖌

What Is It Like Living With Juvenile Arthritis?

Welcome back to Musings of an Arthritic Artist! Last week, I posted a guest post where my sister talked about what it's like having a sibling with juvenile arthritis. 

If you didn't read that post, here's the link: Guest Post: What Is It Like Having a Sibling With Juvenile Arthritis (opens in new window) This week, I'll be explaining what it's like living with juvenile arthritis. 

Obviously, I'm only speaking for myself. Most juvenile arthritis symptoms (stiffness, swelling, joint pain) are universal, but kids are impacted differently depending on what arthritis type they have and how badly they have it. 

For this post, I will be going a bit more in-depth on my life's story as far as my arthritis goes, so put on your seatbelts because this is going to be a crazy (and long) ride. 

With that being said, let's get into the post!

King, Alexandria. Musings of an Arthritic Artist. 2021.

I've had a pretty crazy life. I'm eighteen, and I've been on chemotherapy, dealt with dozens of needles, been in a lot of pain, been unable to walk, been unable to draw, been underweight, nearly gone colorblind (that's a story for another time), had MRIs, X-Rays, and CT Scans (commonly called Cat Scans), been hospitalized (once; I don't remember the experience), and I've been to at least fifty appointments (dentist, optometrist, pediatrician, and pediatric rheumatologists). Those things can all be checked off the bucket list I don't have.

I'm not writing this post for pity. That's the last thing I want. It may seem that my life has been awful and full of hardships that don't seem to cease, but it's not. There are a lot of things that are positive about my life, but this post will focus more on the difficulties of living with an autoimmune disease and juvenile arthritis. 

I won't be talking about invisible disability and my experiences because that is a topic I will discuss next Thursday. I considered doing it here, but both of those posts are way too long to be condensed into one.

In my case, my condition is pretty serious. Let's start when it all began.

Infancy:

I don't remember much from when I was a baby (like most people do), so this information is mostly from my parents and fuzzy memories of mine.

My mother first noticed something was wrong when my family and I had been taking a photo and I had a band around my wrist. The band wasn't there for long. When my mother next looked at my wrist, it was gone. She thought she was crazy, then she looked at the photo and concluded that she knew what she saw. I was about four months old at the time. In case you are curious, the band was a ring of migratory inflammation.

During a routine check-up (with an adult doctor not a pediatrician), my mother brought up the band she had seen on my arm. The doctor shrugged it off, telling her that she was just an overprotective worried new mother (never mind that she had my older sister about 9 years before me).

Then small incidents kept happening. 

When I was a baby, I used to tense up. Whenever my mother had to change my diaper, my knees would be tense and she'd have a hard time changing it, to the point where she would have to tap me behind my knees to get me to straighten and loosen them.

I have a family history of autoimmune disease on my mother's side. One day, my grandmother came over to our house. I had been playing. My mom and grandma began talking, my mother explaining how peculiarly I acted and how I barely walked, and my grandma told her that she needed to take me to the hospital.

She did. The doctors tested me for many things, including cancer (I don't know everything they tested me for; my mom doesn't remember). At nine months old, I got my diagnosis.

After this, I went on chemotherapy. Not much else happened that I actually remember, so I'm going to skip to my childhood.

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Childhood:

I can distinctly remember two times where I got a flare-up for reasons other children would typically be fine. I think the first one I can fully remember was the most painful out of all the ones I've had.

Flash forward to 2009, one of the best and worst years of my life. Why do I say that?

When I was younger, my family I would go out of town for medical care every three months. It was Spring 2009. I was five. At my appointment, we were informed that I was pretty much the picture of health, so I was taken off chemotherapy. 

For my family, this was a big deal. Not only did it mean that I was off medications, but it was also the first time I didn't have to take them since I was pretty much born. As celebration, my parents planned a trip to Walt Disney World.

Nothing went wrong on the trip. It was fantastic, actually. For most of that trip I either rode around in a stroller or was carried by my parents or sister because my legs couldn't handle the distance (Walt Disney World is about 25,600 acres). I ended up getting a heat rash during that trip, which wasn't fun, but at least I wasn't on chemotherapy.

Let's now get into why it's one of the worst years of my life.

What normally happens when a child turns 6 years old? Chances are you thought about school. You'd be correct. I started school and the first few months were great. I successfully made three friends. Then, I had to quit. 

I didn’t make it to Thanksgiving break. Around the beginning of November, I had been hanging out with my three main friends. One of them had gone to school sick. Their mom probably didn’t know, but they went to school with the flu. 

I ended up catching it. It messed me up. I don’t know if it was the same flu, but that year was an H1N1 pandemic (it wasn’t as global as the COVID-19 pandemic). All I know is that I was ill for a while. I had to quit public school, and I never went back. 

My flare-up from the flu impacted my life for a few years. I wouldn't have been able to keep up with school had I gone back. I would've fallen behind very quickly. Because I got such a bad flare-up, I went back on chemotherapy (my chemo-free childhood days lasted less than six months). 

This set me back on my schoolwork. I may have started first grade at 6 years old, but I lost two years where I couldn't do anything but travel, lay in bed, eat, go to bed, stay up all night, and watch TV. I lost two years where I couldn't focus or write. My hands just hurt too much to sit down and even do math. I think that's one thing that is the most frustrating. 

I think I fully restarted doing schoolwork when I was around 8 or 9 (at home of course). I still haven't graduated from high school, but I will at my own pace, which is slower than most people, but it is what it is. 

As a joke, I like to tell my family that I'm a first grade dropout, even though I'm a homeschooled high schooler who is intending to attend college.

The other flare-up happened because my family and I had gone to the park. I couldn’t really go on the monkey bars by myself (I wasn’t strong enough to hold myself up and my wrists hurt often). I remember I wanted to try. Every other time, my father would help me across by holding my weight. 

I didn’t want help, so my parents let me try. It didn’t go well. I fell. It wasn’t that far off the ground (standard monkey bar height for parks is five feet). Nonetheless, it caused my body to have a bad reaction. I was already on chemotherapy medications, but this incident caused me to be on them for an extended amount of time. The fall worsened my flare.

As a child, I didn't have medical mobility aids. I did have mobility aids, but not like a wheelchair or anything like that. I rode in strollers until I was around nine or ten (my parents bought this nice stroller that was long enough for me to stretch out my legs because it had a plastic foot rest thing; it kind of looked like a stroller for twins, except it was just for one child; I loved that thing). 

I also rode in shopping carts a lot when I was a child, and even when I was a tween. My parents bought a red wagon that was primarily used when I was a tween, since I didn't want a wheelchair. When I was younger, my parents and sister would switch off carrying me.

I remember there was one time where I used a wheelchair. I was maybe seven. My family and I (it might've been just me and my mother, I don't remember) had gone to Walmart. Upon entering, they have public wheelchairs, so my mother pushed me in one. This day was the reason I refused a wheelchair later. 

When I was younger, I was incredibly self-conscious (I still am, but not as much), and I just remember the looks on the other customer's faces. They were full of pity, and I hated being looked at. 

It made me feel as if I was constantly in the spotlight. Children looked at me perplexed as well, and I hated it. This is the main reason why I don't have a wheelchair or other mobility aid (plus, I don't need one right now).

To clarify, I know that chances are that no one meant anything by the looks, but it just made me feel different and not normal. I could be completely wrong, but I feel as if people look at disabled children with more pity than older disabled individuals. 

My view could be completely flawed, because I'm only a teenager, and I haven't used a wheelchair since that grocery store visit. That's just my current perception, which is subject to change.

To be honest, refusing a wheelchair probably made my family's lives more difficult. My parents bought many different things to push me in as I got older and taller. My sister carried me a lot more than I would've preferred, and probably more than than she would've liked (though she never complained).

I had small flare-ups here and there, but some I don't really remember, so we've now reached my teenhood.

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Teenhood: 

My teenhood has been pretty slow and easy compared to my childhood, though there have still been struggles. Since I've been a teen I've been on chemotherapy once, almost twice, which is a significant improvement from when I was younger.

I'm not on medications right now, but I'm in the middle of a flare. I have been since December 2019, though sometimes I forget it's even a thing. That's the problem when the pain fades. 

You begin to forget that your joint was ever bothering you, which may lead you to overwork your body or ignore your joint altogether because you forget about it. My flare has definitely lessened since last year, but it's definitely still there. 

Last year, four of my joints hurt. Now, there's only one occasionally, but the main thing that has remained is swelling and inflammation. I mentioned this a while back, but my left elbow doesn't straighten to 180 degrees. It's definitely at an obtuse angle, but my mobility on it is limited. 

I can bend it all the way, but straightening it all the way is downright impossible. Because I can't fully straighten it, it's been perpetually bent for the past year and a half. At the moment, it's shorter than my other arm.

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Some days, it's hard to get out of bed. Eight times out of ten, it isn't because my eyes are too tired. Usually, it's because my body has to physically wake up. Sometimes, it even takes a few hours. Thankfully, last February I got a mattress that has a remote, which means I can elevate it. 

It has helped immensely in helping me get up. In the past, I'd have to put pressure on my wrists and arms to get out of bed. Now, I don't have to. I can just reach over and grab my remote when I grab my glasses and elevate the mattress just enough for me to stand. 

In my opinion, the worst part about having an autoimmune disease isn't the pain. I've learned to deal with that. Pain is fairly easy to handle. The worst part is realizing that you sometimes can't do what you love to do. When my dominant wrist hurts, most times I'm not upset because of pain (though sometimes the pain will get to me).

My biggest fear (even larger than clowns and being trapped and locked in a space) is using my hands so much that I'll never fully be able to use them again. It's a fear that has petrified me since I was a child. 

There were many times where I couldn't draw because my wrists hurt so bad and they wouldn't function. As someone who loves drawing, painting, writing, and wants to become an author-illustrator, you can imagine how terrifying this is. 

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I don't think much about my arthritis in my every day life. I never forget I have it, but at the same time, I do. It's a confusing paradox I have a hard time explaining. I've thought more about my arthritis for the past year, because I'm older and need to get a handle on managing it and since I've started this blog.

Even though I don't always think about my arthritis, it impacts my everyday life, whether I consciously think of it or not. Most things I've just grown accustomed to, so it's just a part of my life now. Here are some examples.

I have arthritis in my wrists, so I can only open certain types of kitchen containers due to lack of strength and wrist strain/pain (I have pretty weak wrists). I have a hard time with lidded glass containers (specifically Pyrex glass containers). Sometimes I can open mason jars (depends on how tightly they were closed because the coldness of the fridge naturally tightens lids). 

I can't open cans. I hate cans with pull tabs, because even if I'm able to force the pull tab up, I can't pull it off. I wasn't able to successfully use a manual can opener until I was about 12-14, and even then, the twisting motion hurts my wrist, so I don't use a manual can opener. Around a year ago, my mother bought an electric can opener, and honestly, that is one of the best inventions ever. Whoever had that idea was a genius.

As I mentioned in my very first post (linked here if you haven't read it: What No One Tells You About Arthritis: Introducing Me (opens in new window)), I have arthritis in my jaw, which makes eating certain foods difficult. I have to have my apples in slices because biting an apple hurts my jaw. My jaw physically cannot open wide enough without pain to be able to bite an apple. My jaw tends to hurt whenever I yawn, mostly because my jaw hurts when I open my mouth too wide. My jaw only opens so far before it begins hurting. 

I have to eat baby carrots because I can't just pick up a standard raw carrot and eat it like that. As a child, I would hate going to the dentist, solely because my jaw would always hurt after. I also was never a fan of going to appointments where my joints would be checked. You'd be surprised at how much your joints can hurt after they're bent, straightened, and basically manhandled by a rheumatologist, even if your joints didn't hurt when you arrived there.

I constantly leave my bathroom door cracked, that way I can just lightly push it open because my wrists don't like the twisting motion required for turning certain knobs (privacy door knobs), and I only close my bedroom door if I'm sleeping or by myself. Otherwise, even my bedroom door is cracked. 

I have a difficult time opening the front door to the new house I live in because there's an extra tab that sticks out that must be pushed down to open the door (entry door handleset). 

I have a hard time walking up steep inclines because my legs can't physically handle them. The thing I dislike most about my new house is that the driveway is on an incline, but luckily, it isn't too steep for me to handle, and I've gotten used to it. 

I have a difficult time standing in lines, depending on how long the line is. I will constantly have to shift my weight to my other leg even if I'm having a good day.

I can't pick up large skillets or sauté pans and have a hard time picking up anything involving cast iron. Large skillets are heavy, and my wrists aren't strong enough to carry them even when I'm using both of my hands. Sometimes even utensils that are too large can also be too heavy for my annoying wrists to handle. 

Another thing is the constant popping. When I was a child, my knees used to get hit hard during flares and so some of the cartilage in my knees dissolved due to the inflammation. This causes my knees to constantly pop and crackle, though there's no pain from this, nor has there ever been. To be honest, there are times where my joints would probably sound like a "little old lady's," but it is what it is. 

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I mentioned toward the beginning of this post that I didn't want to get a wheelchair because of the looks I got when I used one once.

To show just how much being looked at bothered me when I was a child, I will give an example that has nothing to do with wheelchairs or any of that. 

I've essentially been homeschooled for my entire life (save for the 3 and a half months of public schooling I had when I was 6), so my schedule was almost always flexible (it still somewhat is). If we had to go shopping at the grocery store in the morning on a Wednesday, then that's exactly what we did. 

Every time we did, I always used to get looks from people, as if I was ditching school or something. I don't recall ever being told anything (if anything, it happened once; I think I was asked by a cashier if I was supposed to be in school), but that's just what I thought growing up. 

I can't count how many times I was out in public when I was "supposed to be at school." Summer was my favorite season when I was younger because it was the only time where I could be out in public with my family on a weekday and no one would bat an eyelash. They'd barely even look at me, which I loved. That was really the only time of the year where I felt "normal," like I was just a normal kid going out to the store or library. 

Growing up, I never liked being different. Obviously, I knew that every person was different, but I didn't like looking obviously different, such as when I used a wheelchair one time, or when I looked as if I was "ditching" school. I never liked being stared at, because it made me feel as if the spotlight was on me, even if it wasn't. 

I especially didn't like being looked at by adults, and I think that it somewhat went more than the self-consciousness of them being incredibly older. As I mentioned before, I've noticed people have a lot of pity for children with medical conditions. 

Personally, I don't like pity, but I understand why it happens. It's a natural thing, but that doesn't mean I have to like it or search it out (trust me, I don't; that's the last thing I would do).

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I'm going to do my best to explain what a flare feels like, regarding pain.

Imagine a stovetop. On that stovetop is a metal pan or pot (take your pick, it doesn't really matter). You're cooking and you accidentally touch the pot. Your skin immediately burns and you might even flinch in pain from the sudden burning. 

Now imagine you get a burning pain similar to that in one of your joints in the middle of a flare. Maybe you've used your wrist to write or draw too much. Maybe you slept on your hand and it causes pain. Maybe your knee feels as if it's been doused in boiling water.

One moment your wrist is fine (it could be any joint, not just your wrist, but that's just the joint that tends to affect me the most), and the next there's a sudden burning pain. You feel as if parts of your body are on fire. 

It feels like you've eaten a really hot chilé, and it's burning through your body. It feels like your joints (usually not all of them, though there are a few cases) are constantly being touched by a hot poker. It makes you feel as if you're being burned at the stake. Sometimes the burning makes it difficult to sleep. 

There's a couple things that are different between a burn from a stove and an autoimmune disease flare. That would be a potential burn scar (which is arguably more tolerable than the second difference) and the fact that the pain from a burn fades. Usually the burning from an autoimmune disease flare will fade, but it'll take longer. 

Sometimes, it lasts a few hours or a day or two. Other times, it'll last an entire week or even a month. Maybe even a year if you're unlucky. Even when you aren't in the middle of a bad flare (barely able to walk or do much of anything), the pain still comes back every now and again just to remind you that your body hates you for hurting it.

It's a hard feeling to explain, but this is the best example I can think of. It's the way I kind of explained it to my mom when I was a child (which made her realize what her pain actually felt like as well), though my example here is more imaginative and descriptive than just approaching my mom at around 4 years old and telling her, "It burns," while massaging my arms. There are more symptoms than that during a flare such as extreme fatigue, joint stiffness, and brain fog, but this one is the easiest to give an example of. 

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Some people may ask or wonder what I do to mentally cope with my arthritis. This is a complicated question to answer. I definitely cope because of the meaning of the word, but I've never thought of it as that. Let me try to explain to the best of my ability. 

As a baby and a young child, I believed that the pain I felt was normal. I know that I for sure didn't like it, and I know that as a baby, I would sometimes scream bloody murder. 

However, on a certain level, I thought every child felt the way I did. It wasn't until I was a bit older (around 4-6) and could remember hospital visits and my mother explaining my condition in more depth to me that I realized this wasn't normal. That my body was sensitive and reacted strongly, most times to things that would seem inconsequential to a lot of people. 

There are memories I have of excruciating and debilitating pain, but it's never really been something I spend a lot of time coping with. I don't really have a memory of no pain. All my life has pretty much been full of it. It's been a roller coaster of emotions, pain, and occasional sleepless nights, but day after day I deal, because no one else can do this for me.

I think arthritis and disability has made me a different person, even though I was still a baby when I was diagnosed with it. I'm wiser, stronger, and can do things at pain levels other people probably couldn't. It has made me appreciate the small things in life. Who cares if I can't do high contact sports. I can dance. 

Who cares if I couldn't really be a doctor because I know my health wouldn't be reliable (getting sick fairly easily and wrist issues don't mix well in a medical path). I can be creative. I can be imaginative. I'm a writer, artist, dancer, photographer, and a reader, and those things will never change, no matter how much my joints hurt.

It doesn't mean that it isn't frustrating, or even depressing. It can be. There are times it definitely is. I'm not happy all the time, but even non-disabled, 100% healthy people aren't happy all the time, and that's okay. I'm not always a ray of sunshine. In fact, while I can act optimistic and I can be optimistic around people, my mind is the definition of pessimistic. 

Even now, my inflamed left elbow will annoy me. It'll depress me, because to me, it doesn't feel like it's getting better. My family will have to convince me otherwise. I hate thinking about my arm, because then I know that all I'm going to succeed in doing is dwelling. I hate dwelling. It drops me into what feels like an inescapable black hole. 

I find that sometimes the most frustrating things in life are the things you have no control over, because there isn't much you can do--especially in that moment--to change anything. As I child, I couldn't do a lot. That's one of the most depressing things because I couldn't do anything to change it.

When you can change how a situation happens, it's freeing because you know that you don't have to keep doing that. You know that you can do something to change whatever situation you're in. You have control. But when it's something you didn't cause--something you have no control over--there's nothing you can do. You can't tell yourself, "if I just do this, then this won't happen." 

Sure, there are things I can do now to manage my arthritis that don't entail being on medications 24/7, but as a child, I couldn't do anything. Even now, it's sometimes difficult to manage because there's so many triggers, it isn't even funny. Sometimes, that can get overwhelming. 

I know that I used to think about my arthritis occasionally, but I think on a certain level, the severity still went over my head. Not a lot. I knew what was going on. I knew my body was fragile, but it wasn't something that 100% set in until I got older. Until I got interested in more things that I realized what this meant.

It makes you feel trapped. At times, it can make you feel worthless and lazy. It can make you want to push yourself more than your body can handle. It's a horrible feeling. That's one of the worst parts about having arthritis. That's one of the worst parts of having autoimmune disease. 

It isn't the pain that comes with it. It's the guilt and the occasional feeling of worthlessness. It's the feeling that you'll never be able to get where you want to be. It makes you feel as if you're constantly getting backed up and having to start at square one. 

In order for me to do what I want to do, I have to push myself, and to be honest, sometimes I push my body past its limits, even though I know them. Sometimes I push through the pain, because I know that the minute I stop, I won't be able to continue. I won't be able to use my hands (usually I push my joints the most when I'm drawing). 

Burning pain will course through the top of my hands and the trapezium/first metacarpal joints (base of thumb and just below that) in my wrists if I overwork them, and the pain can be so extreme, I can do nothing but lay in bed and cry and think, which is honestly the worst time for me to be thinking. 

I think about my future. I think about my hands. I think about art. I think about everything my arthritis has set me back on. But the most terrifying of all, I think of a world where my hands don't work. Where my hands are so damaged, I can barely hold a pencil, much less put it to paper. I think of a world where I can't do what I want to do. A world where I can't do art. The scariest part is that the world I think of is this world. This life. Not an alternate reality or dimension.

I fear not being able to do what I want to do, which sometimes even makes me fear doing art at all. I never want to give up on it, but I become so afraid of it, that I don't want to do it. I hate it. I hate fearing the thing I love to do. 

It doesn't do anything to benefit me, but whenever I put a pencil to paper almost on a daily basis, the slightest pain in my wrist can set off anxious feelings in my mind. It begins thinking of worst-case scenarios. It begins thinking about the things I listed above. 

At the end of the day though, this is my body to handle, and even though I've had many ups and downs, I'd say I'm fairly decent at managing it. It's hard, but it's necessary. I may not be able to open certain containers or do certain things, but so what. I have limits, and that's okay. I can't do what some other people can, and that's okay.

I may not be able to do some things, and many I can't do for a long period of time, but at the moment I'm writing this, I'm happy, I'm alive, I can walk, I can draw, I can dance, and my pain is minimal. And that is one of the best places to be. 

That's it for this post! I hope you enjoyed it! 

Until next time,

Lexi K🖌

Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins (Spoiler Filled Review)

Welcome back to Musings of an Arthritic Artist! Today I'm going to be doing a spoiler filled book review. This review is for Mockingjay by Suzanne Collins, the third and final book in The Hunger Games trilogy. 

Since this is a sequel, there will be spoilers for The Hunger Games and Catching Fire, and Mockingjay, so if you haven't read these books and you wish to, I wouldn't recommend reading this review.

Let's get into the review!

I shipped Everthorne throughout this book. Real, or not real? 

Not real. I shipped Everlark, even though Peeta was a bit out of reach. Especially after Gale's whole District 2 incident.

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From the moment Finnick stepped into the arena in Catching Fire, I knew he was going to die. He had to. Especially after the wedding. He couldn't not die, seeing as most of my favorite developed minor characters always end up dead. I just didn't know when. I didn't know if he'd die in Catching Fire or Mockingjay.

I have to admit, Prim's death shocked me, even though I was accidentally spoiled by my sister earlier in the year I read this. Katniss spent all that time in the Games protecting her sister from death, and after all that time, she dies anyway. 

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This book left me on the edge of my seat, wondering what was going to happen to Peeta. Of the three books, this one is my least favorite. I finished this one months after I had initially picked it up. I wasn't bored with the plot itself, nor the writing style. Moreso with the characters.

This one did not have the Katniss I expected it to have. She was more on the sidelines than I would have personally preferred. There wasn't as much of that Katniss we had come to love, which was the bow wielding, arrow shooting Katniss.

The political and worldly aspect of this book was more developed and focused on in this one more than the other two, which was a nice change of pace. Though I feel Katniss wasn't exactly Katniss. She didn't have a bow all that much in the entire book. 

She had it in the mission where Finnick died. She has it at the beginning. She had it toward the end when she was supposed to kill President Snow, and instead flipped the tables and killed President Coin. As far as I remember, that's pretty much it. 

Katniss was very much in and out of the fight far too much in my opinion. I understand she's only the rebellion symbol, not the rebellion leader. And I understand they'd want to keep her safe because without Katniss, there's no rebellion. However, when she's for the most part only getting pulled out to do propos, it gets a bit boring.

It wasn't as action packed as the last two, which I have no problem with either. I like books that are more descriptive. Sometimes, I like when the plot and characters are developed and then the action happens. That is, after all what happened in The Hunger Games and Catching Fire.

This book just didn't have the Katniss I was expecting is all.

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Minus one error, Suzanne Collins' writing style shines again. The only error came on page 257, paragraph 5, or line 19-23. The book says, and I quote, 

"Actually Katniss isn't complaining because she has no intention of staying with the "Star Squad," but she recognizes the necessity of getting to the Capitol before carrying out any plan. Still, to be too compliant may arouse suspicion as well. " 

Unless Katniss is referring to herself in the third-person, (which she never does) it seems as if Ms. Collins accidentally made a mistake while revising her final draft, moving from first-person narrator to third.

Mockingjay was a crazy, roller coaster, in both good and bad ways. This book is actually my least favorite in this series. The Hunger Games and Catching Fire just went the extra mile for me, and the conclusion fell short. Mockingjay is a lot of people's favorite book in this series, but for me, it was kind of a letdown. 

I intend to reread it at a future time, so I can really form a better opinion, but at this moment and the moment I finished it 3 years, it was a disappointment. I think it was interesting to read more about the politics of Panem, but I just didn't love the Katniss in this book. I found her boring and dull, moreso than I did in the other two books because I genuinely love Katniss as a character. 

Overall, I didn't hate this book. I gave it 3 stars on Goodreads, which is a pretty low rating for me, but I still enjoyed it. 

That's it for this review! I hope you enjoyed it! 

See you Thursday, 

Lexi K🖌

Guest Post: What Is It Like Having a Sibling With Juvenile Arthritis?

Welcome back to Musings of an Arthritic Artist!

Today I'm posting my first guest post. This post will be narrated by my older sister, Samantha, who was in elementary school when I was diagnosed with polyarticular JIA at nine months old (Juvenile Idiopathic Arthritis that affects 5+ joints), so she's experienced a life I have not: having a sibling who lives with autoimmune disease/juvenile arthritis/chronic illness/disability (it's a mouthful, I know).

This is a new perspective for me as well. Seeing as I'm the youngest of two, I don't have any younger (or older) siblings who have been diagnosed with anything. 

Most of what she's going to be writing is new for me, seeing how I've never asked her how her life has been impacted by it until a few months ago when I asked her to do this for me. 

I will include links at the end of this post about how arthritis affects siblings and family, if anyone is interested in reading any further information.

Without further ado, let's get into the post!

King, Alexandria. Musings of an Arthritic Artist. 2021.

I am the older sister of a kid with polyarticular juvenile idiopathic arthritis. Well, she isn’t a kid now, technically, but to me she’s always going to be my kid sister – and she can just accept that already. 

I was two months shy of being 9 years old when she was born. I was just about to finish 3rd grade. My life completely changed when she was born – and then it completely changed again just nine months later.

Being an older sibling of a child with chronic illness is not the easiest job in the world. It also isn’t the hardest. It fits somewhere in between because it brings a lot of new challenges, but in time it becomes what I call a new “normal”. My normal isn’t the normal of my neighbor or my friends or other members of my family.

There are a few things that I have definitely learned – through experience and observation – over the last 18 or so years. These include caution, assistance, sensitivity, perception, normalcy, and accessibility. There are likely some other things, but these are the main ones that immediately jump to mind. I’d like to talk about each of these, since they’re all pretty important.

CAUTION

As a sibling of a physically disabled sister, I learned quickly about the need for extra caution. I wasn’t the rowdiest kid growing up. I could often have a television be my babysitter for several hours. 

I liked to play and run around outside, but I wasn’t a rough-housing kid. Quite frankly, I couldn’t be. My sister already had so much pain that adding to it in the name of fun definitely wouldn’t be appreciated. Of course, it was never even an issue. 

I think I was rather perceptive as a kid and I realized pretty fast that my sister wasn’t going to be a standard kid by most peoples’ standards. I had been in enough hospital rooms and doctors’ offices to know that. I’d seen and heard about some of the tests medical professionals were doing on her to figure out what ailment she had – as a baby. 

I could see it when she could barely move even as a toddler. I could see it in how she spent most of her time lying around instead of crawling about and getting into trouble like the babies and toddlers I’d seen on TV. So I also learned that it wasn’t just a baby that needed caution exercised – it was this entire kid. 

I saw the welts she got from scratching an itch or softly bumping into a wall – the kinds of bumps that would make someone think she was abused (far from it, let me tell you). The lightest irritations and childlike accidents could be big deals. 

A fall on a playground could worsen a flare. Wrestling, extensive tickling, and anything too physical were out of question. Even now I occasionally look around to make sure there’s nothing extra I’ve done that could be harmful. I’ve had to be cautious about the pressure my hands exert and I don’t even have a heavy hand. Nonetheless, I’ve done it, no questions asked. That level of caution will likely never go away. 

EXTRA HELP

This is the part I occasionally struggle with. The standards for me and for other people are far different from my sister. The tools I use in the kitchen with ease are sometimes things that she can’t use at all. 

It’s largely been my job to assist when these kinds of struggles arise. When a jar needs opening, when a can needs a handheld can opener, when a food container has a lid that isn’t easy to open – I’m needed. 

This is where I struggle, because truth be told my sister has taken a little advantage of this, and also because I forget how much of a struggle some of these actions can be. As someone who has been an adult for a while, I forget that just being older doesn’t automatically mean you can do something. Nonetheless, this is an important aspect of care that in many ways I’m used to by now.

HEIGHTENED SENSITIVITY

What some people may not know is that living with chronic pain can cause heightened sensitivity when it comes to emotions, particularly things like distress and stress. As a result, it is sometimes necessary to be hyper-aware of the words and tones you use with people with chronic pain. Emotional triggers can be just as harmful as physical injuries, even though the result is less visible. 

I’ve been known to cross some lines in arguments or not think about how a movie scene may impact my sister. We’re siblings, so we frustrate each other and we have gotten really comfortable with each other. 

This means my heightened awareness isn’t always at the optimal level for my sister’s needs. Just because something doesn’t bother me, it doesn’t mean it won’t bother her. Being aware of this is very helpful in being a long-term caregiver.

EXTERNAL PERCEPTIONS

This is honestly one of the most frustrating things about being the sibling of a person with an “invisible” illness. It isn’t about the actual illness or how you deal with it. It’s all about how people outside of your circle view you and your sibling. Too many times I’ve been harassed or seen my sister harassed or misunderstood – because her illness isn’t noticeable. 

Since she doesn’t have heavy-duty braces, a prosthetic limb, or a wheelchair, everyone assumes she’s fine. Everyone assumes that if we’re in a handicap parking space, we’re being jerks. Everyone assumes that nothing is wrong and we’re taking advantage of something we shouldn’t. 

So many times this has made me angry. So many times my family has had to educate others on how not having a wheelchair is in some ways harder, because her legs get more tired with long distance walking. She still has to put in all the physical work and exertion to get where she needs to go, even if her body says “I have limits.” 

Just because you can’t see an illness, doesn’t mean it’s not there. From one human being to another, if someone has official government-issued handicap plates, please leave them alone even if they “look fine” to you and your eyes. They likely do not fit within your definition of “normal” and don’t deserve to be harassed as a result.

Sometimes even people I know have misconceptions about what I have to do, and why I do the things I do. They don’t understand the precautions I take during a pandemic, the precautions I take in checking if some movies or shows might be distressing, or the level of aid I provide. They assume I’m coddling my sister or letting her take advantage of me. 

It isn’t malicious in nature, they just don’t understand the full extent of my sister’s condition and the limitations it imposes. Honestly, no one knows what is needed better than a chronically ill person and their closest loved ones. So please, if you haven’t been in my shoes or those of people like me and like my sister, let us do what we need to do.

DIFFERENT “NORMAL”

One thing that is easy to forget, but is also great is the way that something you never expected, just becomes your new normal. I didn’t expect my sister to have her condition. I didn’t expect all the challenges I would get as a new big sister. 

Nonetheless, I adapted, my family adapted, and my sister adapted. Instead of seeing what we can't do, we’ve been able to see more of what we can do. I notice certain things more readily than I might have if I wasn’t the sister of a chronically ill kid. I think differently than a lot of people I’ve interacted with. 

I see travel, work, accessibility, and assistance differently. I always have an annoying habit of being overly optimistic and sunshine-filled, because of how many bright sides I’ve had to find along the way. 

Now, it is so normal and I do it so often, that it even drives my sister crazy. But that’s okay, because it works. Even when she’s annoyed at me, it often brings laughter as she asks why I’m so annoying and so peppy. That just means I’m doing my job right.

I’m more aware of accessibility when I go out. I think more about potential distances when parking or planning excursions. I know the importance of making sure good shoes are available. I know the importance of maintaining a healthy diet. 

I know far more about diet and nutrition than most people my age who haven’t studied those topics extensively. I pay more attention to the design of household tools and items than many people do, considering if it’s arthritis-friendly or not.

CONCLUSION

I’m the older sister of a wonderful and irritating kid-who-isn’t-a-kid. My experiences were different growing up. I spent a lot of time doing homework in hospital rooms. I spent a lot of time being hyper aware of sensitivities. I spent a lot of time planning and evaluating situations and places to be as helpful as possible. I’ve given more piggyback rides than I can count to help when sore legs occur. 

I’ve spent more hours giving pep talks and drying tears than I can count. I’ve spent a lot of time being frustrated with people who don’t understand what my sister’s disability means for her and how to help her adapt to things – looking at you, public school!

I get frustrated sometimes. I get overwhelmed sometimes. However, caring for a chronically ill sibling quickly develops you into a very aware individual. As much as it gives you stress, it also gifts you knowledge and experience that some people take a lifetime to learn. 

I’m grateful for my knowledge, for my experience, and even for my pain in the butt sister. I’m probably never going to 100% step out of the caretaker role I adopted after her diagnosis, not even after I eventually move away. It’s not a switch that can be turned on and off. 

Every day, every hour, I’m not just a sister. I’m a caregiver. I’m a confidante. I’m a motivational speaker. I’m a role model. I’m a line of defense to prevent unfairness from impacting potential success. I’m an innovator – finding ways to help my sister adapt when needed. 

But at the end of the day, I’m still a sister and I wouldn’t trade my experience with it for anything, except the ability to take the pain for myself so she wouldn’t have to deal with it every day.

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Hey! It's Lexi again! Thank you Sammie for agreeing to do this, though it isn't like you had much say in the matter. 

Just kidding! You could have refused if you wanted to, but I knew you wouldn't. It you had, you would've had to contend with my complaining, and I know you wouldn't have wanted to deal with that. Love you! 

My sister has a blog of her own where she reviews books and occasionally movies. You can check out her blog here: The Real World According to Sam (opens in new window).

She is also a Comics News Staff Writer over at ScreenRant. You can read her articles here: ScreenRant Author Profile: Samantha King (opens in new window).

That's it for this post! I hope you enjoyed it! 

Until next time,

Lexi K🖌

Further information: 

Arthritis Foundation: Impact of Juvenile Arthritis on Siblings (opens in new window)

How Arthritis Affects the Family (opens in new window)

Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins (Spoiler-Filled Review)

Welcome back to Musings of an Arthritic Artist! Today I'm going to be doing a spoiler filled book review. This review is for Catching Fire by Suzanne Collins, the second book in The Hunger Games trilogy. 

I did a review for The Hunger Games last week and decided to do a review for this one soon after. Since this is a sequel, there will be spoilers for both The Hunger Games and Catching Fire, so if you haven't read those two books and you wish to, I wouldn't recommend reading this review.

Let's get into the review!

At the end of the first book, I found myself shipping Everlark (ship name between Katniss and Peeta; mix of their surnames Everdeen and Mellark), but at the end of this one I found myself shipping Everthorne (ship name between Katniss and Gale; mix of their surnames Everdeen and Hawthorne), leaving me with confusion as to who to pick. Peeta or Gale? Everthorne or Everlark? Baker or Hunter? "Cousin" or Star-Crossed Lover?

Similar to the first installment, I was hooked by Suzanne Collins' writing style. Just when I thought Katniss was safe from the arena, twists get thrown, and I was left unaware. Much like its predecessor, I blasted through it. 

Suzanne Collins must have a secret recipe for writing amazing cliffhangers, as this one warranted me to start right away on the final book. (If she does have a secret recipe for cliffhangers, I wish to know it.)
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Catching Fire is one of my favorite books, and probably my favorite dystopian novel thus far. I can't explain why I like it more than The Hunger Games. There were so many twists I never saw coming. We also got to see a bit more of District 12, which was fun. It seems like every character got even better than before. 

My favorite tribute in Catching Fire that wasn't Peeta or Katniss was Finnick. I loved his personality the moment he was introduced. He seemed so serious while also being fun and lighthearted. He stole the spotlight on every page he was on.

We got to see more of Gale in this book as well, which was enjoyable. It was interesting to read about how similar and different he and Katniss were. I like both Peeta and Gale as characters, but I leaned more toward Everthorne, though Everlark was very close behind leaving me confused which who to pick. 

The only thing I still don't like is how much Katniss goes back and forth between Peeta and Gale. It's fine for her to think about who she loves more. It's okay for her to try to sort out her feelings, but don't egg them both on. 

It reminds me of Bella Swan in Twilight, but I hated it more in Twilight than here. If you're confused as to what I'm talking about, here's a link to the review where I mentioned that: New Moon is Worse Than Twilight: Here's Why (opens in new window). 

This book also has some really memorable quotes, such as when Katniss says, 

"Fire is catching! And if we burn, you burn with us!" 

It's a quote that's so memorable, I remember it from 3 years ago. And just to clarify, it's not because of the movies. I haven't seen them all the way through. I've only seen clips. I really want to watch them, I just haven't. 
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As far as the movies go, I'm just not looking forward to them completely ignoring/getting rid of Peeta's prosthetic leg after the mutt incident in the first book. We had a little disability rep in these books and Hollywood decided to completely eliminate that. 

It annoys me, to say the least, but I digress. This is a review about the books and not the movies, which I haven't even watched.
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This book, much like the last one, got five of five stars, and I'd arguably say this one was better than the first. The characters were much more developed and the story was even more intriguing. 

It was even better written than the first. There are just some books I'd never get tired of, and this is one of those books.

That's it for this review! I hope you enjoyed it! 

See you Thursday, 

Lexi K🖌