It has becoming increasingly clear I have outlived my usefulness. Who I am has become intolerable. I'm too emotional, in too much pain, too angry, and contribute nothing positive to the world. I drain the resources of the people who are unfortunate enough to still be stuck with me. Perhaps if I behaved better, or could get a grip on how upset I am over how bad I hurt, I could reclaim some of my purpose. But I can't.
I beat my head against the wall daily trying to find 2015 me. Where the hell did she go? Instead of a vibrant and vital woman who believes she can conquer any obstacle, I'm a shell-shocked, quivering mess of Jell-O who can barely say my own name. But I do not blame the people in my life who have grown so contemptible toward me; I sympathize with them. I am a mess. I am an undesirable person to be around. I have ruined people's lives because I was (insert verb) enough to get sick.
I dream of what it would be like to have an illness somebody believed in. I wonder what it would be like to not have to play court jester every time a flare came up, least anyone be bogged down by how miserable my reality actually is. Some people don't have to be cheerful and upbeat all the time, especially when they feel awful. I can only imagine that must be like the sweet song of freedom, to be able to tend to oneself without failing the world in return.
I actually learned years ago how to ignore my symptoms and pretend what I'm experiencing isn't real. I got so good at it, I walked around for four days after I had a stroke before I had another one and went to the hospital. But something changed. Somewhere along the way I became egomaniacal enough to believe I mattered, my truth mattered, and some doctor out there might be able to do something about it.
Now I know the truth--I am not allowed to be sick. I am not allowed to feel my symptoms and react to them. I am not allowed to try and make myself comfortable to ride out what should be a physical experience, but because of over a decade of psychological damage has become an emotional one. I'm not allowed to show anyone how I truly feel. My existence is bothersome to people, and my problems are my fault anyway for not getting better by now, and I've really screwed up everyone else's plans for their lives...
Please believe I never set out to become this pathetic. I never asked for any of this. I tried, so hard, to mind-over-matter fibromyaliga and rise up above my symptoms in order to achieve life. But that resolve is gone. My hope is dead. My faith is shattered. And I have absolutely no clue how on earth I'm supposed to keep doing this.
Thanks for joining,
Leah
