Sharing Is Caring

That’s what I have been taught my whole life. It was the mantra repeated throughout my childhood, and is the nostalgic phrase thrown out in my present. I wholly believe in it.

I’ve had a sharing kind of day. My dad lent me his sweater, I brought some food from home for my friend, another friend shared some of hers with me, I shared my scarf and hat with others who were cold throughout the day, I received yarn as a gift from a friend for whom I knit a hat, and I got a ride home from someone because it was raining. It was all really great, and it got me thinking.

So, sharing is caring, right? We’ve established that. If so, why can’t I share my pain? Why am I the only one of my friends who’s suffering every minute of every day? Why am I the only one who has to worry about her health and her treatments all the time? Why am I the only one who isn’t healthy enough to participate in things?

It’s not that I want my friends to feel like this. I wouldn’t wish Fibromyalgia on anyone, ever. It’s just that I’m frustrated with feeling so alone in it. I can talk about it with my friends, especially a couple of them who are really there for me with this stuff. My class knows what I have (after a really messed up year of it staying a rumor despite the fact that I told everyone what it was). I talk to my parents; they know exactly what I’m going through. All of that is great, and not to be underrated.

But no one feels what I feel. No one knows what it’s like to have this pain, to feel so sick all the time. Anyone who doesn’t feel what I feel the way I feel it would have no way of ever understanding what it’s really like. And that makes me all alone. People care about me, but I can’t share this. I’m the one who wakes up and goes to sleep this way. I’m the one who sits in class with pain travelling through her body. I’m the one who stands talking with people, but is usually actually fighting a migraine, knee pain, exhaustion and more to do so. I’m the one who’s hurting. 

There’s really no solution to all of this. Even this blog isn’t the solution. It helps a lot, don’t get me wrong: seeing positive comments and a show of appreciation for what I write makes my day a lot of times. But it doesn’t take away the pain. I try to keep up with normal life, with the things people my age are doing (by the way, the driving license picture ended up coming out great!). But at the same time, I’m also a really old person: I can predict rain. C’mon, no one my age is supposed to be able to do that. My knees swelled up last week, while my friends were all on vacation in locations around the world, because the weather was changing. And yet I still can’t figure out when to bring my umbrella.

I’m tired of hurting, and of feeling alone. Just tired of it.

Yours truly,

Ella

Song Quote:

It’s taken me a while to tell you, exactly how I feel inside. The words, they may seem simple right now, but they took me a while to find. –Be Alright, Lucy Rose

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The Life of a Nightmare

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Birds sing. It wakes me up, and that’s how my day begins.  I go to school, where I’m liked enough by my peers to not be picked on. My teachers generally think well of me, which is a good thing. I have clothing on my back, clothing that I like, and I’m not ugly.

I work hard at school, and I see the results. I have a couple of friends who care about me. I live close enough to school that I can walk home, and I listen to music, which always makes me happy.

Once home, I have relative freedom. My parents love me. I have two sisters. I have my own computer, and my own room. I have space to do my homework. I can have friends over if I’d like. I live in a fairly safe town (in a not so safe country). I don’t have to be afraid to step out of my door.

Truly, if I look at myself from afar, I can see why people think my life must be great. I have what others covet. Supposedly.  Other people might think of my life as a dream. I appreciate what I have, I’m aware of how wonderful it is to have these things.

But I’m living a nightmare. An invisible nightmare, to those who aren’t me.

When the birds sing, it hurts my head. When I wake up, I awake to pain.  When I go to school, I’m faced with the horrible truth: I’m no kid anymore. I’m light-years older than everyone else, because I have to be.

Everything that sounds good on that list, is awful is you’re feeling constant pain. I can’t think, can’t breathe, can’t exist, without something about my body being wrong. Our bodies were designed to work. Not to spread pain. With one pain, comes another, and my body tries to adjust. But it can’t. Because pain is a domino, and my body can’t let its guard down.

And people think they should covet what I have. I want to throw a tantrum, kick my legs, punch teddy bears and scream at the world: why was I given this? I want to grab the world by its neck, shake it, and make it realize something: just because something looks great, doesn’t mean it is. But more importantly: just because someone looks okay, it doesn’t mean that they are.

To you, something may look like a dream. But more likely, it’s a nightmare.

I can’t sleep at night,

Ella

Song Quote:

Look into my eyes, it’s where my demons hide. -Demons, Imagine Dragons