***Possible Trigger Warning***
This post contains raw descriptions of the mental strain chronic illness has put on me. If you, too, are in a dark place, it may be best to skip this one. Take care of your mind and know that there is someone out there who wishes you well-health, comfort, safety, and love.
Time and time again I end up here hoping to convey the emotions that have been burning within me. But then, I simply don't. I stare at the blank pages before me and recognize that like me, they too remain empty. I type hoping that I will magically find the words I've been searching for, the words that are able to explain the loneliness that accompanies multiple chronic illnesses. I type a few sentences before the bully that is myself echoes how irrelevant my feelings are to the world, and the sentences that I pour from within me...well they disappear.
Time and time again I end up here hoping to convey the emotions that have been burning within me. But then, I simply don't. I stare at the blank pages before me and recognize that like me, they too remain empty. I type hoping that I will magically find the words I've been searching for, the words that are able to explain the loneliness that accompanies multiple chronic illnesses. I type a few sentences before the bully that is myself echoes how irrelevant my feelings are to the world, and the sentences that I pour from within me...well they disappear.
Again, I run back to the comfort of these blank pages. Maybe here no one will see how damaged I truly am. Maybe it won't be easy to see that the ache that has consumed my entire body has indeed found its way into my soul. And yes, of all the pain I've yet to experience, this is the most dull ache of all. And while my precious "Bully" wraps her arms around me, she reminds me that I'm being something I've been deemed my whole life to be. Overly dramatic. I take a deep, forced breath and silence the feelings inside of me which I previously believed to be true. I compartmentalize and return yet again to my blank pages.
Something within me knows better, or at least I'd like to think so. After all, I am completely aware that I excel at being dramatic. But I would also like to believe that how I choose to describe the intertwining of my aching soul is my right, and mine alone. My so called, "Bully" will stop me from knowing my worth at times. She will convince me that blank pages will embrace me more than those who know such pain. But as I strive to cope each day I find that I am anything but empty. I am full of compassion, empathy, and strength. I am not just the pain that weighs me down. I might be the ignition point to my own fire that burns within me, but maybe I can control the way I treat myself and the environment which I put myself in, despite the pain.
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