Imagine being 20 years old, your whole life ahead of you, when suddenly an invisible monster called fibromyalgia crashes in. It stole my youth—15 years of endless, screaming pain that left me bedridden, isolated, a recluse hiding from the world so I wouldn't burden my loved ones. I lay there, day after day, wishing for death to end the torment, living vicariously through books and TV shows while my dreams faded. But I adapted. I learned to endure the pain, to find a fragile peace in the silence between screams. I stopped wishing for the end... and then, at 35, it came knocking anyway.

My name is Eamon Scullion and I'm from Northern Ireland. I've been a heavy smoker since I was just 7 years old—a stupid choice born from a troubled childhood that I regret every day. That's 28 years of damage, turning my lungs into a battlefield. Seven years ago, I was diagnosed with moderate COPD, but it's gotten worse. For the last two years, I've had nonstop chest infections—fever, cough, breathlessness—that don't respond to antibiotics or steroids anymore. I haven't had a single well day in 24 months. My doctor sent me for a CT scan, and the results were urgent: "glass-like particles" in my lungs, likely respiratory bronchiolitis-associated interstitial lung disease (RB-ILD), a rare smoking-related condition causing inflammation and scarring. The radiologist noted it could be asbestos or pigeon exposure, but my smoking history points straight to RB-ILD overlapping with COPD.

My family history is a curse: COPD, emphysema, bronchitis, bronchial pneumonia—it's riddled with it, suggesting a genetic predisposition like alpha-1 antitrypsin deficiency, which accelerates lung destruction in smokers like me. At 35, I should be living life, but instead, I'm gasping for air, trapped in the same isolation fibromyalgia forced on me. The pain from fibro never left; it just got company from lungs that feel like they're drowning.

The gravity? Without immediate treatment—smoking cessation support, targeted antibiotics like azithromycin, corticosteroids to reduce inflammation, pulmonary rehab to rebuild my strength, and specialist care for RB-ILD and possible genetic testing—my prognosis is grim. Doctors say I need aggressive intervention now to stabilize and extend my life. But the HSC system in Northern Ireland has me on a "routine" waiting list for a respiratory specialist: 3-5 years. That's not a wait; that's a death sentence. In 1-3 years without help, I could be gone—respiratory failure, a fatal infection, or heart strain from the lung damage. Even quitting smoking today (which I'm committed to) might only buy me 3-7 years if I can't get proper care. The best case, with urgent treatment? 10-25+ years, enough time to finally live, not just survive.

I'm terrified. I've wasted so much time screaming in pain, hiding away, watching life pass by. Now, facing death, all I want is a chance to stand up—to reconnect with people, to do the things I never did, to stop regretting and start living. But the system is failing me. Private care or cross-border treatment could get me seen in weeks, not years—tests, meds, rehab that could halt the progression and give me those extra decades. I'm not begging; I'm fighting for my life, and I need your help to do it.

Every donation is a breath I get back, a day without fear, a step toward the life I deserve. If you've ever felt pain that no one sees, or watched a loved one suffer, please don't scroll past. Share my story, donate what you can—£5, £10, anything. Help me turn "I'm dying" into "I'm living." Updates will come every step: from the first private appointment to quitting smoking milestones. Thank you from the bottom of my scarred lungs—you're giving me hope in the darkness.

With all my heart and soul,

Eamon Scullion

Northern Ireland