The lights are all on. Noise bounces around me like I’m at the airport. Just noise and sound and movment. Everyone is going.
I can’t take even one step. Each breath is devastatingly difficult and ever consuming.
This business of being alive is getting to be painful. I have no reason for physical pain. My illness is invisible but I can feel it slithering around my brain, eating the good bits that keep me from giving up.
My illness is invisible, like me, it’s all in my head. My heart pounds in my chest and I can’t breathe–because my mind. I grit my teeth at nothing but am fuming angry. I’m so empty my chest shakes.
I know you can’t see that I am stick. But I am. And I need love and care as another ill person may. But I won’t get it.
I’m as invisible as my illness.
My illness is killing me.