Robbed of a tennis career

I squeeze my feet into the silver shoes at the wedding shop. There is no way I am going to wear my black boots with my Amanda Wakeley dress. As I struggle to tie the straps with fumbling fingers, I see the assistant watching me. "I have rheumatoid arthritis," I explain. "When are you getting married?" she asks. I am about to say: "Oh no, I'm the bridesmaid, it's my sister Helen's wedding," but stop myself. For a moment, I long to let her believe it is me.

I am 28 and have had rheumatoid arthritis (RA) for 10 years. It's a common inflammatory disease of the joints for which there is no known cure. For some sufferers, the disease causes some pain or discomfort. It soon became apparent that I was in that group of people who have the disease to such an extent that it leads to severe disability. It has changed every aspect of my life.

Ten years ago, I was one of the top dozen or so junior tennis players in the country and had just won a tennis scholarship to a prestigious American college. Life looked good, the future was exciting. Then my hand began to hurt.

Within a few weeks, I was sitting in a hospital being told I had a degenerative condition and that I might never again be able to play tennis. "I want X-rays of all your joints," the doctor told me." And you must see an occupational therapist who will make you some hand splints."

I was 18. I had just started dating. When the therapist put the revolting splints - pale flesh-coloured Velcro monstrosities - in front of me, I was horrified. I realised nothing would ever be the same again.

And it hasn't been. But I have gradually learned to lead a fulfilling life, despite the splints, the endless pain and hospital appointments. After eight years, I am on a new drug, which has significantly reduced the pain.

But the one thing I long for, more than anything, is to find a soulmate. Having RA has played havoc with my love life. Before finding the new drug, the pain was all-encompassing, leaving little energy to even think about boyfriends. The disease stole from me that young, carefree period of my life when I should have been dating lots of men and building new relationships.

As I approach the big 30, some of my friends are getting engaged. "You will meet someone," mum keeps reassuring me. "And that person will adore you for who you are." Sometimes her words are deeply comforting, at other times an irritating cliche. When I walked up the aisle with Helen I felt so proud and happy. Yet, with each awkward, painful step, part of me wished I was her.

A year after the diagnosis, I went to university. By that stage I was becoming increasingly immobile. The RA had changed my body. The muscles which lay across the tops of my hands looked as though they had been attacked with an ice-cream scoop. A couple of my toes were lying on top of one another. I had lost weight in my shoulders; my swollen knees made my legs look like sticks; my hip joint had so deteriorated that the bones were grinding together. I was so ashamed of my condition that I told no one, especially not boys. It seemed so unglamorous, especially as it is misunderstood as an old person's disease. How could I ever show a man my naked body?

On one occasion, a potential boyfriend asked me back to his flat. My heart sank when I saw he had a futon. How could I get onto it without giving the game away? I manoeuvred myself awkwardly onto the floor-height mattress, crashing down on to my knees like an elephant and swivelling around on my bottom. He pulled me on top of him. The weight on my elbows was straining my arms and shoulders. Every joint was screaming. "You're shaking," he said. "What's wrong?" So I told him. He never called again.

Writing my book has helped me let go of my fears about relationships. If I meet someone now, I'd not only tell them about my RA, I'd ask them to read the book. I know there are many men who would be frightened of dating a woman with a degenerative disease. When I meet men I like, all my deep-rooted insecurities strike again. I am painfully lonely at times. But as Helen keeps reminding me: "It only takes one person to fall in love with you. To me, you aren't 'Alice with RA', you're just Alice. And you will be to somebody else, too." I hope so. Next time, the wedding shoes might really be for me.

? A Will To Win by Alice Peterson is out now in Pan paperback, £6.99.