I’m tired today.
I’m struggling today.
I’ve spent today in bed.
Today is a bad day.
I’m fed up.
I don’t know what to do.
All words I’ve uttered over the last forty eight hours. All words greeted with silence, musings of ‘I know’, or pearls of wisdom.
They want to help. They want to be there. They want to hear it.
Yet they don’t.
It’s not their fault. It’s no-one’s fault and yet it feels like everyone’s fault.
This suck. This fucking sucks. That’s all I need to hear. When I’m feeling down words proposing a positivity I just cannot fathom or telling me it will be OK fall on deaf ears.
So instead of burdening them, making them feel low or guilty, I just don’t.
I sit alone in my room staring out of the window and wishing I could be more than I am. So much more. I have dreams. I have goals. For myself and my family. Yet this illness has stolen them. I had a life mapped out and now it’s been washed away, replaced with broken lines, stumbling blocks and endless rest stops.
At the moment I am stuck between illness and living. And I’m not sure which way to turn. Do I live, go out, walk around, knowing I’ll go backwards in the end but on the other hand feeling alive? Or do I sit inside, preserving my energy but seeing my sanity slip away with every day that passes?
Chronic illness hurts, in more ways than one. It is cruel. It offers you the world with one hand then snatches it away with the next. And it cuts you off from your family and friends as the chasm of understanding stands between you. Even my children stand on the other side, calling me across, crying because they think I don’t want to.
Oh how I want to.