Chronic illness is boring.
It’s repetitive yet unexpected.
It’s microwave meals and forcing myself to shower.
It’s wearing the same pajamas for 48 hours and fantasizing about doing anything but remain curled in a fetal position on the couch.
It’s getting work done after midnight because I slept through the pain all day.
It’s tired of grappling with supplements, food restrictions, ointments, salves, lotions, essential oils, cold packs, and heating pads.
It’s running out of consumable media for distraction-from-reality purposes.
It’s learning how to dry swallow a handful of vitamins.
It’s shamelessly enjoying anything that requires no real emotional investment.
It’s considering how to best utilize the energy I have at my disposal.
It’s making lists for when I can set myself down like a top and spin.
It’s too nauseated to eat anything other than pretzels and toast.
It’s using cannabis to curb symptoms.
It’s comfort eating pastries as soon as I find my appetite.
It never behaves.
It doesn’t care about my plans.
It doesn’t make me very “fun.”
It doesn’t make me lazy.
It makes me feel more insane than I really am.
It is one way one moment and another the next.
It has taught me how to approach fear and discomfort with quiet acceptance.
It emboldens my empathy.
It is my past, present, and future.
It is part of my story.
It is what I deal with.
It is not who I am.