When you encounter me, I appear composed. My makeup is flawless, and my hair is neatly styled. I’ve mastered the art of presenting myself in the best light with minimal effort. I’ve learned how to maintain a façade of normalcy in spite of my chronic illness. I might smile, even when I’m battling discomfort. I might sit silently while my body protests. I do this to blend in. I do this to feel like everyone else. I do this to spare you the burden of confronting an illness you might not know how to react to. I do this in hopes of occasionally seeming healthy.
You remain unaware of my darkest days because I choose to shield them from your view. My partner, Alex, witnesses them. My sister, Mia, sees them too. But the nature of my illness often demands concealment. On days when my condition flares, my body craves the comfort of home; I shun the need to force a smile or present myself well. So, I retreat. Nestled within my familiar space, I gaze at the same four walls.
There are few locations I will venture to on a difficult day, and even fewer on a truly terrible day. They must be places where I feel completely safe, where I can exist without the need for explanations. I don’t do this out of shame for my situation; I do this to protect myself when I’m at my most fragile. However, this behavior can lead to misconceptions about the seriousness of my illness.
You’ve never witnessed me faint, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t happen. You’ve likely never seen me struggle to catch my breath after a simple shower, but that’s a reality I face. You probably haven’t observed my hands tremble or my complexion pale as I gasp for air just from standing up. You don’t see these moments because I stay hidden on those days. Yet, I assure you, those days are all too real.
I share this because it’s easy to judge someone’s condition based solely on what you observe when you’re with them, but that can be misleading. When you see me, you might wonder why I can’t pursue a conventional job. You might question why I am so passionate about writing on chronic illness. You may even think I exaggerate for sympathy. But when you see me, you’re only catching a glimpse of my reality. What you perceive on one day doesn’t represent every day.
I strive for normalcy because I don’t seek pity; I don’t want my illness to dominate conversations. I write to shed light on a condition that is often hidden. I want people to grasp what occurs when they don’t see me, to understand my life better. This isn’t just about me; it’s about raising awareness for others in similar situations. I write so that people reconsider jumping to conclusions based solely on appearances.
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In summary, my struggles may remain unseen, but they are an integral part of my life. It’s vital to understand that appearances can be deceptive, and the journey of those with chronic illnesses is often more complex than it seems.