This isn’t nice and shiny. This isn’t about thinking positive. It’s not about Internet memes with serene landscape backgrounds. I’m not looking to sugar coat anything because this is life. Life isn’t fair and this is my life. Mine. I don’t care what you think or what you want to say, you probably don’t understand because you haven’t had my experiences. I don’t pretend to understand your life. I’m trying to be realistic.
You can pretend, you can try to empathize but you don’t get it. You don’t truly get it to the very core of your being. That’s where it matters. You can’t understand how soul crushing it can be to stop and think about all of the opportunities and experiences and potential I have lost. I’ll never get it back.
I’ve had my dreams and life plans taken from me. Stolen. My identity has been changed. It feels like it was overnight but really it’s been very slowly, excruciating so, over days and weeks and years. Some days I feel constantly reminded that I can’t do what I went to college for. I have 2 college degrees but can’t work like I planned to. I had hopes and dreams. I’m not talking about making millions here, I’m talking about wishing I could have my dream job where I’d be helping my community. Helping people. My ‘plan b’ was teaching in a community college. Instead, I’m a professional patient. Sometimes I think about what teaching would be like and I freeze up because I don’t know how much I remember from my education, or if I could successfully do something as simple as answer a student’s question.
No one asks to be sick when they grow up. No one says going to the doctor is fun, I want to do it more often! Being chronically ill is like a full time job that never has the same hours or work week to week. You never know what you’ll be doing, when, or where you’ll be going. You don’t get paid. Your life feels like it’s controlled by someone else, something else. Being a professional patient is difficult. No one is prepared for you. You have to develop your skills as you go and you must for your own survival. You’ll talk to doctors who don’t believe you or think you are seeking drugs.
I don’t want to take these pills. Naps are nice but not having to nap is nice too. I don’t want to nap so much. I want to take a walk without worrying if I’ll hurt for three days afterwards. I would like to help people without endangering my health. I don’t want to be in pain every day for the rest of my life. I don’t want to be depressed. I don’t want to be anxious about whether time out with friends will cause me extreme physical pain for days and days afterward. I wish I could work instead of sitting at home watching Netflix. I wish I could receive a paycheck.
Some days I’m not sure I even know who I am anymore. Here in America, most people identify by what they do. Jobs or careers are important. Making money is important because it allows you to be independent. I cannot make money. I can only do so much in one day. Going to the grocery store is hard. Driving across town is difficult and painful. On the wrong day or a bad day, just standing in the kitchen and washing dishes is practically impossible.
My days are split up by eating, taking pills, maintaining my body with stretches, and sleep. Chores or doctor appointments are accomplishments. Walking out to retrieve the mail from the mailbox is sometimes a great achievement. Better days are no migraines or not needing any extra pain meds.
My sense of identity, my feelings, my memories, my cognitive and physical abilities – all of these things were changed without my permission. I have very little control over how I’ll feel when I wake up tomorrow morning. Or the next day. Or next week. Let alone next month.
You don’t understand. Not really. Not unless someone or something ripped apart your life, dreams, and identity and patched it back together in whatever haphazard way she, he, or it choose. If your life has been changed by some horrid trauma or event that you deal with every day and you can never really recover, then you understand.