‘Melancholie’ by Albert György
Depression
Wordless Wednesday – Weary
Wordless Wednesday – Anxiety
Turmoil
It’s hard being the person every one comes to for answers… and you don’t have any.
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Drowning in Silence
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We could laugh and talk for hours/days … then not talk hours/days.
That was part of “us.”
We didn’t have to be in the same room to be comforted by each other’s presence.
We didn’t have to voice every thought and emotion.
We appreciated the silence.
But invariably, one of us would cough or sneeze, leading the other one to make a loud, snarky remark … and we’d be off and running into recreating endless movie scenes and TV one-liners.
Until we exhausted ourselves and invited silence in.
We appreciated the silence.
But I don’t anymore.
The silence is too loud.
Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning in silence and the only lifeline that can save me is gone.
Forever.
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Image from Pinterest
Living With Invisible Illness: Hostage
Failed plans.
Missed appointments.
I’m labeled rude, uncaring, and arrogant.
Invitations dwindle then disappear.
It’s not my fault.
I’m not to blame.
I’m a prisoner, held hostage in my own body by an illness most can’t pronounce, and even fewer understand.
No dinner.
Piles of laundry.
I’m labeled lazy and entitled.
Family and friends give my mister sympathetic looks which mean, “We know it’s not you.”
It’s not my fault.
I’m not to blame.
I’m a prisoner, held hostage in my own body by an illness which hides just below the surface. A master of disguise, it leads doctors on a merry chase taking my energy and thoughts with it… and leaving pain in its wake.
More tests.
More co-pays.
More pills.
More dubious looks from the very people who are supposed to understand this shit.
More dumbass questions and asinine statements. “Don’t you want you get better? You need to work with us, not against us.”
Enough!
It’s not my fault!
I’m not to blame!
I’m a prisoner, held hostage in my own body by an illness the medical community would rather dose, debate—and some, even debunk—than find a real cure for!
No more tests!
No more co-pays!
I don’t want your pills!
I want back the life I had!
I want to attend graduations and weddings!
I want to take my nephew to the park!
I want to take my dog for a walk!
I want to put on heels and go dancing!
I want to clean my house, plant my garden, and shop without needing assistance or risking a two-day flare-up!
I want to leave my home without concern for the distance from the parking lot to my destination!
I don’t want the pitying looks!
I don’t need the snide remarks!
And if one more asshole says, “You’re so lucky you don’t have to work, I will lose my shit!
And I will make no apologies…
…because it’s not my fault!
I’m not to blame!
I’m a prisoner, held hostage in my own body by an illness I cannot escape.
And, while it may drain my energy and steal my thoughts, it will not take my soul.
And no one will take my dignity.
Felicia Denise, Author 