I was always a happy and active kid; I loved soccer and books and building forts in the woods near my house. My childhood was filled with love and laughter and promise… until my 12th year, when I suddenly became ill with a flu that persisted much longer than it should have. A few weeks and several blood tests later, my doctor diagnosed me with Epstein Barr Sydrome. I was to be pulled out of school and spent the next four months in bed.

At 13, I was back in school and recovering nicely. But then I fell ill again. The same doctor who initially diagnosed the EB examined me and declared that there was nothing wrong. My parents and teachers - people who saw me every day, who knew how different I had become since I'd been sick - disagreed. They watched, helpless, as I changed from a bright, outgoing kid to a sickly, scared, hopeless one. I gave up soccer, baseball, track-and-field, skiing. Watching movies hurt my eyes. I even had to give up reading; I couldn't lift the books, let alone focus on the text long enough to get through a chapter. Something was clearly wrong and my parents weren't about to sit by and let me fall through the cracks of the medical profession.

What followed was a difficult string of tests and frustrated shrugs from doctors. Fortunately, within a year, with the help of a wonderful family doctor and the perseverance of my parents, we had an answer: I was diagnosed by leading experts in the field as having a textbook case of Myalgic Encephalomyelitis: Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

My teenage years were rough. My team of doctors (I am one of the lucky ones who had physicians who believed in and supported me) advised against starting high school. They didn't think I could handle the pressures, physical and mental, of a full-time schedule. I refused to drop out - I was determined to be normal, despite the crippling fatigue and host of other debilitating symptoms I was experiencing on a daily basis. My one concession was to attend the high school nearer to home instead of the high-profile arts school an hour away. By Christmas my condition had worsened, just as the doctors predicted. Even so, I refused to quit school - I spent the rest of the year being tutored at home because I was too sick to make it to class

So much of that period in my life is foggy, dreamlike. Looking back on those years is like flipping through a photo album with half the pictures missing. There is a lot I don't remember, and what memories I do have aren't worth saving:

I remember needing help to climb the stairs to my bedroom. There were seven of them, and I had to rest halfway.

I remember not being able to brush my hair because I was so weak and because the lymph nodes in my armpits were so sore, swollen to the size of cherry tomatoes.

I remember the pattern on the ceiling above my bed because I stared at it every day for months when the illness completely took over my body.

In short, I was really sick, and apparently remarkably young for a full-scale onset of Chronic Fatigue. Certainly it marked me, shaping the way I experienced much of the first third of my life.

But I learned to manage my illness with each passing year. I found tremendous strength in the love and faith surrounding me. I was blessed to have such support: an incredible network of friends, family, and doctors who never once gave up on me or doubted that I could and would recover. My aunt and uncle took me in and looked after me for months at a time to give my parents a richly-deserved break. When I got depressed, my friends cheered me up. When conventional therapies didn't work, my doctors sent me to alternative medical practitioners. The glass went from being half-empty to half-full.

With my personal cheerleading squad encouraging me from all sides, I began to realise that Chronic Fatigue wasn't who I was, that the illness wasn't me. CFS affected the way I lived, but it didn't have to dictate my life. I shifted my perspective on the illness, and it is at this point that I started to believe that I could truly become well.

And slowly, with some bumps in the road, I did. Gradually, bit by bit, I got better. Once I could manage it, I returned to school: first a course at a time, then half-days a few times a week, and within two months I was attending on a regular basis. I joined the drama club and took photography instead of phys ed. I wrote plays. I got an after-school job. I enrolled in yoga. Of course my health fluctuated, but each relapse was less severe than the last, and the tremendous support I received made getting through each day possible. It took me an extra year, but I graduated from high school. I got accepted to university and moved away from home, and when my first year away nearly did me in I still didn't give up. University took a bit longer to complete, too, and I had a few significant relapses that were pretty discouraging, but I persevered and I graduated with an Honours BA.

Since then, things haven't been too bad. In fact, looking back on where I've come from, I realize just how good things are. While I haven't had a major relapse in some time now, I know that I need to be on guard against the possibility. I still work hard to maintain a balance between my working, social and personal lives. I resist the temptation to overextend myself by taking on extra projects and responsibilities, which is hard now that I have the energy to do so. I try to take the best care of myself I possibly can, and I forgive myself when I don't. And when I do get sick, I don't panic. Fortunately, I am not alone in this: the army of family, friends and physicians who rallied by my side when I was 13 are still marching with me to this day, and I've been blessed with new friends and loved ones to add to the ranks who have been immensely supportive and understanding. Their compassion has contributed to my wellbeing in more ways than can be measured.

To the casual observer, I lead a pretty normal life: good job, great guy, nice house with a hammock in the back yard and a dog on the front porch. By CFS standards, however, it's quite an extraordinary one. I just turned 28; that means that I've been living with the illness in its varying aspects for over half of my life now. So am I a CFS patient or a CFS survivor?

I prefer to think of myself as a success story in progress.