Huh.

Well, I guess, I’ll just pour my mind onto a page. On social media, I’m just a little more polished, a little more clean. A little more sane. However, in reality, I’m a mess in progress. Constantly thinking, forgetting, feeling. I’m almost always in pain. I guess that’s what the “chronic” in chronic illness stands for—constant, never ceasing, endless. No one really knows. Yes, they know my diagnosis. Ninety percent of them can’t pronounce it or remember it’s name or what it means besides “hurt”. But “hurt” does not encompass me or my illness. I try to advocate. I try to speak out on Twitter with their trending tags but my voice falters. How can I make them understand? I don’t even remember what it’s like to be normal. To not worry about having medication in my bag in case my pain cripples me at work, to carry creams and heating pads and to grit my teeth so I don’t cry in front of my coworkers. To try and walk without a limp when there’s shooting, agonizing pain in one or both of my legs for no reason besides I walked too much, too far, and it’s too cold. It’s been over a decade. This is who I am. They don’t understand me and I don’t understand them. I’m so desperate for someone to know my insides not my outsides. I put my makeup on perfectly—precisely. I have to look “good”. For myself. For them. For everyone. I like to pretend I’ve accepted myself and my illness and I know what I’m doing with life but I don’t. I just don’t. My mind is still a mess after all these years of beating myself down and building myself back up. I’m just trying my best. And aren’t you, too?