The Invisible Disease I Don’t Wish on You
My disease is invisible. I can go outside my door and smile at the world, and nobody would be able to detect the inexplicable exhaustion I feel. It’s a secret condition that feels like a slow walk through a swamp, leaden weights holding back every fiber of my being. Pain, there are a hundred ways to feel pain for someone as sick as me: in my bones, my fingertips, my clavicle, the place where my femur enters my hip — but nobody can see it. I smile anyway. I’m young, dark hair, brown eyes. I can’t be past 30, and with a little red lipstick, I’m almost pretty.
I’m always tired. I’m not sure if I’m suffering chronic fatigue syndrome, I really don’t think so. For a very long time the weariness I felt had no clear origin, until I found out I had the autoimmune disease, Spondyloarthpropathy. It basically means my own body is attacking my spine and other important parts responsible for movement, such as tendons and ligaments.
It also attacks my heart, not my physical heart, but the part of me that believes in myself. It’s hard being sick at such a young age. My way of thinking suddenly shifts from being comfortable to feeling different. When my body is on the prowl it wages war on my ankles. I find myself unable to get one foot in front of another, and eventually I’m in a wheelchair. It attacks my right hand next and then I can’t pick up a pen to write. I…
