The next morning, I woke up brutally early and made the trip out to Brooklyn to run the Brooklyn Half Marathon. It wasn’t a goal race for me, but I had just started training for my first marathon with Coach Cane so I wanted to do well and show him I was a decent runner who could negative split [insert applicable "LOL" here].

I hope Coach Cane never sees this photo and my “iPod arms.” Silly young Ali, carrying her phone in her hand during a race.

The race did not, in fact, go well.

I had gone to the bathroom my usual 900 times at home, and when I got to the start area I hopped in one of the notoriously long porta-potty lines. I needed to…do stuff…before there was any way I was running 13.1 miles out to Coney Island. My stomach just felt off.

I got to the front of the line, bolted into the stall and, much to my dismay, found there was no toilet paper. Rather than hop back out and wait for a more suitable porta-potty, I just didn’t go. With a bubble in my stomach, I moved into my start corral hoping for the best.

What a terrible idea.

The race started and I went out fast — too fast for me, but I was loving the speed on the rolling hills in Prospect Park — all the while I knew something was off in my insides.

By the time I finished the second loop of Prospect Park, I was desperate for a porta-potty. I had never stopped to use a bathroom during a race before but knew my time had come.

I made my first urgent stop just outside the park, followed by several more. It was hot, I was sweating and I was panicking because my stomach was in such distress mid-race and I’d never had that happen before.

I finished the race in 1:52:14 — not bad considering the uh, issues — and swore I would never eat corn again (and I haven’t).

What I wouldn’t give to sweat like that again…and not because I have a fever. Because I ran 13.1 miles.

I didn’t have time to celebrate my survival. I was immediately on a subway back to Manhattan where I showered and then got in a cab up to Van Cortlandt Park in the Bronx for a day of commercial shooting with the JackRabbit crew.

I was so tired, but shooting was fun. I loved being a part of Run for the Rabbit and getting to know everyone involved.

Three of the Rabbits with our oh-so-patient coach.

As the shoot wrapped and we all walked back to our cars, I started talking to the hot guy who was in charge.

It turned out, he lived in my neighborhood. We shared our favorite restaurants and bars and then we went our separate ways. Until a few hours later, when some semi-drunk Facebook message flirting got us on our first little date.

“He” was Brian. You know that already.

Earlier this winter, I signed up for the Brooklyn Half Marathon again. I was sick at the time, but I figured it would pass like it always did and I could get revenge on that Course to Coney Island. I never once thought I wouldn’t be able to run the race.

Plus, the timing was going to be great.

I’d have a good race this time, whether I could train for a PR or not, and then Brian and I had big plans: a trip to Hawaii.

Two of his friends are getting married in Hawaii, so we decided to make a vacation out of it. Plus, it would coincide with our two-year anniversary, and while neither of us are anniversary-celebrators, it was still sort of cool.

Well you probably know what happens now.

I’m not running the Brooklyn Half Marathon tomorrow.

I’m bummed, but I can get over it. It’s a race and there will be more races.

But on Monday at 10 AM, I’m supposed to board a 14-hour flight to Hawaii. I’m supposed to go to this magical place where we would hike and bike and do all sorts of fun, active, exciting things.

I bought new bathing suits, books for the plane ride, a pair of shorts with polka-dots on them and a sundress to wear out to dinner one night. I even got a new suitcase for my birthday to stuff full of Hawaii-appropriate shoes.

It’s the most beautiful suitcase I’ve ever seen in my favorite obnoxiously-bright orange color. And yet…I haven’t removed the tags.

I don’t think that suitcase is going to get filled this weekend.

I’m in complete denial about this trip.

I can’t believe I’m probably not going to be able to go to Hawaii — a place I’ve wanted to go my whole life — because of Crohn’s disease. I’m in too much pain, and 14 hours is a long time to sit on a plane. Plus, even if I made it to the pretty islands, I wouldn’t be able to do much once I got there. That’s not the kind of trip I want.

I always bragged that I had this disease but it didn’t take over my life. I could still run! I could spin! I could go out with friends and I could mostly eat whatever I wanted! Except corn.

But now, Crohn’s disease is my life.

It’s keeping me confined to the couch and the bathroom, and there’s a 90% chance I’m not going to Hawaii on Monday.

I’ve tried to do everything right. The doctor said, “The Humira doesn’t seem to be working, so let’s get a second opinion,” and I called for the second opinion. Unsurprisingly, it’s impossible to get an appointment and I’m jumping through all the hoops I can find to make it happen.

I’ve been back to the acupuncturist and I’ve started on the Chinese herbs she concocted for me.

The herbal pills are pretty and they smell good. Now I just need them to do something.

I take 15 pills a day, on top of the Tylenol I take for the unpredictable fevers (still happening) and the sleeping pills I take so I can get a few minutes of sleep between the night sweats (definitely still happening, and last night was disgusting).

This is how I sleep. On towels. It’s fancy and smart.

I haven’t wanted to write much lately because I’m not in a good place to be sharing how I feel with the world. I’m usually all about opening up, and I’m happy to tell you about my symptoms. We can be as graphic as you’d like.

Mentally, though, I’m struggling. And I fear how much worse that could get when Brian gets on a plane to Hawaii by himself on Monday and I stay here, alone, on the Worst Couch Ever.

I used to love planning fun things, and now I can’t plan my afternoon, let alone a tropical vacation. It’s a different lifestyle than I’m used to and it’s not one I want to become used to.

Some days I think I’ll wake up and this will have all been a dream. I still hope for that.

They say, “What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger.” I don’t believe that right now. I’ve never felt weaker.

And I’ve never been more desperate for an escape to somewhere wonderful.

I’m not better.

Everyone keeps asking, “Do you feel any better?”

Nope.

Not really.

I had fleeting moments this weekend on the couch where I’d think, “Hey hey hey now, I think I’m OK! I think I can go for a walk! I should unpack from Arizona! Let me check the SoulCycle schedule for this afternoon!”

Last weekend Brian put my bike on the trainer because I swore at some point I’d be OK enough to get on it and do a little riding. Joke’s on me, as usual. The bike has since been taken down and re-mounted on the wall, unridden.

And then I was back in the bathroom, writhing and screaming (so glad Brian wasn’t around for this) and producing things that are terrifying for the average human.

People have told me to appreciate the little improvements or any signs of progress.

Well, I haven’t really seen any, except for the fact that yesterday was the first day in months that I didn’t cry. And I don’t think it’s for any reason other than my tears having run out and dried up. I’m all out.

Two weeks ago, wrapping our shoot in Arizona. To think at the time I was convinced, “This can’t possibly get any worse.”

People keep telling me to “stay positive,” but what they don’t realize is you can’t “stay” something you’re not already feeling. I’m incredibly un-positive. Or I guess the word is…negative.

I’ve mentioned before that I’m simply not myself anymore — not when I’m like this. I’m like a shadow of myself, just waking up each day, dreading witnessing the happy sunlight hours from my couch, and then equally dreading the nighttime, which inevitably means discomfort, night sweats and a dozen trips to the bathroom.

I LOVED the rainy days last week. They were so perfect for staying home on my death couch.

Really, a dozen.

I kept track of my bathroom visits for a 48-hour period last week. That list was longer than any To-Do list I’ve made in years.

People also keep telling me to “keep fighting,” and saying things about being a “fighter.”

The truth: I’m not fighting. Not at all. I sit on my couch all day feeling sorry for myself. I do work, and I miraculously haven’t fallen behind with office work, but I’m not exactly doing tricep dips and push-ups in between bathroom runs. I’m not out getting fresh air or cutting out gluten, dairy and whatever the cavemen didn’t eat.

Brian brought home my favorite Molly’s Cupcakes for my birthday. One bite, one trip to the bathroom…repeat, repeat, repeat.

Finally, people are constantly, constantly asking, “Have you talked to your doctor? What does your doctor say?” as if he’s withholding some secret cure or medicine that I could have been on this entire time.

Yes, I’ve talked to my doctor. No, he isn’t helpful beyond “the Humira will take some time to kick in.”

UNRELATED TYLER PHOTO. He’s playing with his birthday balloon.

I spend a lot of time breaking into hysterics about how much I hate my couch and how much I resent my living room, which feels like a prison. I also spend a lot of time feeling extreme anxiety over the medical bills that arrive every day and make no sense to me, and then more time desperately trying to figure out how to get a human on the phone instead of an automated recording insisting that I need to “please listen carefully because our menu options have changed.” No they haven’t! I always press 2! Nothing has changed!

My birthday came and went. It wasn’t a good day and my wishes didn’t come true. I also made the mistake of watching a few minutes of My Sister’s Keeper on TV while Brian cooked dinner (my favorite pre-marathon meal, filled with deliciousness and nostalgia), and that brought on a full-on, need-to-breathe-into-a-paper-bag meltdown. Bad idea, Fragile Ali. And then I continued to cry about how I really, really miss my old roommate. Conroy, can you move back to NYC now? Watching Step Brothers alone sucks.

My coworkers got me beautiful flowers and a STUFFED BABY LLAMA. She’s amazing. Her name is Cookie.

I have also randomly been spiking fevers all week, which is pissing me off. Last night I didn’t sleep at all because my fever wouldn’t break, so I stayed up watching “Parks & Recreation,” covered in cool, wet washcloths.

Wet towels have played an important role in my life lately. They are either wet because I have sweat through them, or wet because I’m using them for healing and soothing tools. In this photo, those red bumps all over my legs were so damn itchy and irritating that I wrapped hot towels around my legs. I dripped water everywhere during the application process, and by the time I got them on and wrapped, they weren’t hot anymore. I’m a terrible self-nurse.

There is hope moving forward: I gave myself my second dose of Humira on Friday morning, which was oddly exciting. I gave myself two shots in my stomach as I was laying in bed, and they were mostly pain-free and uneventful. Now I just need them to actually work. And I have my second appointment with the acupuncturist today, so maybe that will bring some mental relief if nothing else.

Humira round two, like it’s not big deal. I stabbed both these suckers right into my stomach. Bam!

As much as I hate life and all the healthy people in the world who don’t seem to appreciate their health and good fortune (Oh you had a bad run because you were tired and sore? Wah! Shut up. You’re able to run. And generally leave your apartment.), I truly do appreciate all the love I’ve received lately. I’ve been showered with nice emails, comments and flowers, and I haven’t responded to any of those nice gestures because I’ve pretty much morphed into a bad, thankless person. But if I’m ever back up and running, expect a sweetly bedazzled thank you note from yours truly!

Giant flowers from Lauren and puppy flowers from Brian’s family. Woof woof.

Oh and I think I’ve finally accepted that I won’t be running the Brooklyn Half Marathon this Saturday. I don’t think four months of complete inactivity makes for optimal training, but I don’t know. I hear rest days are crucial.

This year, especially, my birthday is just another day I’d like to ignore.

Leading up to today, Brian kept asking what I wanted to do for my birthday, and I’ve repeatedly told him I want to skip it.

“We’ll celebrate when there’s something to celebrate,” I’ve told him.

So here we are, on the day I turn 28, and I don’t have a special outfit to wear to work or a Facebook event telling everyone that tonight is about me. Instead, I’m sick. Friggin’ still.

I spent the entire weekend on the couch, and by last night I really reached my breakdown-meltdown point. I couldn’t stand the noise from the TV. I hated the feeling of the leather couch against my skin and I got this overall feeling that I was trapped in a prison of my apartment — and a prison of my body.

The great outdoors. Last weekend I ventured up to the roof to read, but I got cold and only lasted two minutes. Victory!

I did spend a lot of time this weekend baking. I made oatmeal chocolate chip cookies and zucchini chocolate chip muffins. So I have a lot of those hanging around.

Pretty oatmeal cookie outside…

Gooey oatmeal cookie inside. I don’t even like these cookies. Do you want them?

I’ve also developed tiny red, itchy bumps all over my body, which is apparently a side effect of the Humira. So how fun: I get the annoying side effects yet none of the benefits! So far this drug is the absolute best!

My plan for today is to make it to the office for an 11 AM meeting and see what happens from there.

My coworkers brought me this while I was home one day: A Newsies bag and a Newsies hat. I obviously pull it off. And will be wearing it today. Maybe I DO have a special birthday outfit…

If I can work a full day, great. If I’m back on the couch watching “Beverly Hills, 90210″ by 3 PM, then I’ll let you know the latest between Slutty Kelly and Sexy Dylan.

There will be no cake. No celebrating.

Celebrate with muffins!!!

At least not yet.

I do, as always, have some birthday wishes, though. I realize that saying them “out loud” means they won’t come true, but I’ve also admitted recently to wishing on imaginary morning rabbits, so I think we’ve passed the point of practicality here.

Here are a few things I’m wishing for today, on my 28th birthday:

I want to run one lap around the Reservoir. Maybe 12 laps. But I’ll settle for one, 1.57-mile circle around that beautiful body of water.

I want to miraculously be able to run the Brooklyn Half Marathon in two weeks. I know I keep saying I have no intentions of running it. That’s the story I tell all of you. In my head, I haven’t given up on running this race, even if it means I walk the damn thing. In my head, I still think I’m going to be at that start line. It’s delusionally optimistic. I know.

I want all the friends I’ve pushed away and ignored since getting sick to know I still love them and miss them.

I want someone to unpack my suitcase from Arizona. It’s been a week and the pile is somehow getting larger.

Yeah I didn’t bring all of that to Tempe…and yet, there it all is, on the living room floor.

I want to have an entire GChat conversation with LBC without complaining. She’s been taking the brunt of my frustration about this disease and I’m beginning to feel badly. So maybe today I will talk about her happy things instead of my sad ones. Cheese!

I want my friend Sara to move to the Upper East Side and not further downtown where things are “cooler” and “trendier.”

Sara comes equipped with a giant panda puppy, but that’s NOT the only reason we are friends.

I want to go a day — I’ll bargain for an hour, even — without pain. I just want to sit comfortably for a few minutes without writhing around in discomfort.

I want to go back to Matt P.’s spin class at Crunch.

Aw, so optimistic on Friday morning, signing up for a Saturday class…

…aaaand then canceling Saturday morning. Obviously. How foolish of me.

I want Celine Dion to go on tour, and I want tickets to her NYC show. Front row or bust.

I want to sleep through the night. In bed. Not on the couch.

I want a new couch.

I want to go back in time to be able to plan Tyler’s first birthday party, which happened yesterday, and which I wasn’t able to attend…

Start ‘em on the sugar young! Except that he preferred eating grapes and fruit over his cake. To think I thought we were related…

It broke my heart not being there. Facetiming my way in wasn’t the same.

I want another new Erica Sara Designs bracelet.

I know I said no cake, but I’m changing my mind: I want that really delicious three-layer Pepperidge Farm cake that they sell in the freezer section at drug stores and gas stations. Vanilla cake. Chocolate frosting. One fork.

THIS CAKE. But a much bigger slice. WTF is that?

I want to have enough energy to walk from the couch to the kitchen and back without having to take a break.

I want to remember what it feels like to be healthy. I truly have no recollection of what that’s like, and that sucks.

I want to finally write the blog post about how I’m feeling better, and how much I’ve appreciated all of your kind words and your support during these dark days. How sick are we all of reading about Crohn’s disease? Trust me, I know. But I’ve got nothing else!

I doubt I get 28 wishes today. So if I only get one, let it be this one…

I want to be a healthy, happy 28-year-old. Starting today.

I have woken up on the first day of every month since kindergarten and, while still laying in bed, I have whispered, “Rabbit, Rabbit, Rabbit.”

It’s supposed to bring you good luck for the rest of the month.

Clearly it’s not a foolproof method for success, but I stick with it every 30–31 days.

When I woke up Wednesday, though, I had a hard time summoning those little woodland creatures. Wishing for “luck” in the midst of the shitstorm of my life seemed more hopeless than ever.

I still did it. Old habits die hard, and this one has stuck with me since 1990. Damn you, Mrs. Forgiel, you kindergarten-teaching wizard.

It’s impossible at this point to think I can count on luck to help me feel better.

Park Avenue tulips. I went for a teeny tiny walk on Saturday and got to see the flowers everyone has been Instagramming and #nofiltering. I’m not even on Instagram, but I know these things happen. I know everything.

It’s been one week now since I got my first four Humira shots and so far…nothing.

Not only am I not back out running, spinning and frolicking in my sports bras, I’m not even sleeping through the night (or in the same bed as Brian — I take the couch to avoid soaking through the sheets and waking him up every 15 minutes) or enjoying a solitary moment without pain. I am apparently not one of the very lucky people for whom Humira kicks in “right away.”

And yet I somehow survived my third flare-up-ed cross-country flight this week for a work trip.

I wasn’t really on picture-taking duty while in Tempe. So here’s a nice picture of a fence and some flowers and a palm tree or two.

It wasn’t a smart decision on my part. I know I shouldn’t have gone on the trip. Humira is a strong immunosuppressant, so being on a plane with loads of coughers, sneezers and germ-carriers isn’t ideal for my squashed immune system. Plus, Arizona isn’t exactly right around the corner.

But we know that I’m stubborn, and despite my dad’s insistence that if I go “I need to wear a face mask on the plane,” I boarded U.S. Airways Monday morning bound for Phoenix, sans face cover. I haven’t had much of a presence in the office lately (it had been weeks since I actually went to work) and this trip was for a photo shoot I was excited about and was proud to have pulled together. I wanted to be there to see it through. And so I went.

A scene from our May/June cover shoot…the one that got me so stressed and sick that my Crohn’s-Colitis went from a 4 to an 8. Worth it? I’m still not sure. Let me know if you can find me in the crowd. Hint: I’m not the one in the red jacket.

The flight out to Phoenix wasn’t too terrible. I hadn’t slept at all the night before, so I managed to pass out for the first few hours of the flight. My coworker and I got to our hotel in Tempe by 12:30 PM and were sitting outside in the 100-degree heat by 1:00.

The trick to making your feet look small is buying the baggiest pants you can find.

By 4 PM we were exhaustedly tucked into our beds with a movie and room service. I popped a sleeping pill and a pain pill (both seemingly useless, but I keep trying) and got a decent night’s sleep, only waking up three times for bathroom needs — all of which my coworker claims to have slept through. (I should also note that our hotel room didn’t have real bathroom doors and instead had “trendy” “barn-style” doors that didn’t even close all the way. You know what’s a fun surprise for a girl with hyper-active Crohn’s who’s traveling with her colleague? A non-closing, non-soundproof bathroom door made for cows.)

Based on my successful “only waking up three times” sleep, I was hopeful for the next day: photo shoot day.

I swear, we never plan for this and yet whenever we travel for photo shoots, puppies ALWAYS end up on set. This little guy was a stray and I loved him forever.

Instead, I woke up Tuesday and was back to Square Suck Ass. I was fevering, every joint in my body ached and my stomach felt like it was hosting a team of Boy Scouts all out to earn their knot-tying badges with my intestines. Ouch. And also gross.

Despite a rough start to the day, I made it through the shoot and we got plenty of gorgeous shots for our next issue. This is exciting for me and probably not for you. I’ll send you a copy so you can share my joy. What’s your address?

After the shoot, my body shut down, as it tends to do every few hours.

I went back to the hotel, crawled into bed, ordered food that I couldn’t eat (sorry, company budget, for wasting you) and watched “Full House” until I fell asleep. Thank goodness for my coworker, who did everything for me, including putting my food on my lap where I could reach it, unwrapping my silverware for me and removing the smelly dishes when I couldn’t handle them anymore. Rachel, you are a goddess. If it were Thursday, I’d be thankful for you. But I’m a day late, so I’m just glad we work together I guess.

This is from last year. Rachel is the one on the far right. I’m the one on the far left with the amazing posture and air-dried hair.

I was supposed to see a show the night of the shoot, but instead I was bedridden with a 102.3 degree fever. Employee of the Year: Ali Feller!

The flight home Wednesday wasn’t too pretty either, but I got through it barring any major disasters. I sat perfectly still in my seat the entire time. I didn’t eat or drink so as not to disturb my stupidly sensitive insides, and even the slightest movements, like crossing my legs, had me doubling over and breaking the “fasten seatbelt sign” rule so I could make a sneak attack run for the bathroom. I PRd in airplane bathrooming on this one, that’s for sure. I also had to try not to cry a few times. It’s fine.

When the flight landed, I realized how bad-off I was beyond the stomach stuff and the back pain and the fever and the other various miseries I’ve been complaining about: I couldn’t get my bag down from the overhead bin. I did it myself, because of the stubbornness, but it just about knocked me over, and the bag wasn’t even full. It was half-empty. Sense my pessimism with that statement.

As I attempted to haul my wheely bag up the jetbridge (jetway? causeway? ramp? red carpet?), I realized just how weak I was. I don’t have an ounce of muscle left on my body. Every part of me is fatigued. Woe is my triceps. R.I.P. my calves.

UNRELATED TYLER PHOTO! Just because it’s been a while since you guys have all seen each other. This is his pet puppy.

After bolting out of the cab line to run back into the airport bathroom, I eventually made my way into a little yellow car and got home around midnight. And then I let out all the tears I’d been hiding from my coworker and saving for lucky Brian. He was soooooo happy I was home!

Thursday was a big day: I went back to work. I kind of had to. How do I explain to my boss that I was able to make it across the country for a photo shoot but couldn’t salvage my way to midtown for a few hours to sit at a desk?

Central Park from my perch on Bernie’s Bench this weekend. I long to be back there soon…and not just passing by in a cab on my way to work. I would also like not to have to take cabs to work because that’s an expense I’m not up for anymore.

All day at work people kept coming by my desk and saying, “Hey stranger!” I think some of them genuinely forgot my name.

And then I did something new and scary: I went to an acupuncturist. I’ve been wanting to do this for a long time but I’ve canceled on the poor woman four times because I was always in too much pain to sit still and get needled.

Thumbs up for being willing to try anything at this point! Put needles in my head, sure!

This perhaps warrants a separate post, but the gist is that whether or not the acupuncture works and heals my inner parts, my first 90-minute appointment worked wonders for my brain. The acupuncturist (she’s also an herbalist and she’s going to dish out some Chinese herbs after we’ve let the Humira run a bit of its course) asked so many questions, not just about my disease but also about my mental state, my anxiety and my feelings.

I cried for her like a pro. She had a tissue ready for me before the first drop even flew down my cheek. She was amazing and so comforting. She said she could tell I’m “normally an optimist” but that “this disease has taken that from me.”

Spot on, new best friend.

I expected a stuffy doctor’s office, but this place was much more spa-like and cushy.

As for the actual acupuncture: It was new and a little weird. I couldn’t even feel most of the needles going in (she put them in my lower legs, where she said I had lots of fluid build-up and inflammation — shocking — my chest and my scalp), but there was one in my leg that really hurt. I made a little “ow” noise that was actually more of a “meow” noise, and she asked if that one hurt. I said “meow” again and she said, “Interesting, that’s the one for your intestines.”

It all comes together.

Stay tuned.

I came back from my trip and found this creation in the mailbox. A handmade get-well card from my best friend. What’s better than that?

I still feel awful! I still mostly want to curl up and sleep forever and have this all be the worst dream ever!

I don’t have much “think positive” power left in me. I don’t have much fight to fall back on.

But I am still trying to believe in rabbits. So here’s hoping three little lucky ones come out to play this month.