Chronic illness is a cunt and I’m not a hero.

Chronic illness traps intelligent, capable people inside substandard bodies and I for one, am sick of it.

There, I said it.

I don’t need your condescending oohs and ahhs, I’m not a firework display.

The reality is I am a semi functioning, adult human.

Don’t speak to me like I’m an idiot, don’t bother to hide your disgust at something which isn’t my fault. Obviously I have no real feelings because I’m a monster, right?

While you laze away your days, eat yourself sick and smoke your lungs black, I fight for every breath, every ounce of motivation, every positive thought; because most of the time I am terrified.

That’s how chronic illness works.

The hint is in the word ‘chronic.’

Yes, sometimes I am okay sometimes I’m not.

Sitting in a room of people twenty to thirty years older than you, hooked up to oxygen tanks and spitting into cups is quite a humbling glance at your future.

So while you condescend and praise for normal everyday shit most cognitive humans can manage, why not actually try to be helpful?

Do things quicker so I can sit down.

Ask questions that have nothing to do with illness.

Don’t tell me you’re ‘dying’ for a cigarette; I’m dying to fucking breathe.

And lastly, don’t, above all don’t look at me like I’m patient zero.

I can take antibiotics and get better; for a while at least.

You’ll still just be a cunt.