I am Sick

And There's Absolutely Nothing Wrong With Admitting It

I’m taking a different approach this week.

Little known fact: I write a weekly journal summarizing how my writing went. It catalogs the number of new ideas I came up with, how many pitches and submissions I sent out, and whether I forged any new brave territory. Nothing I expect anyone else to read (as evidenced by the scribbled handwriting).

But I had nothing to say when I sat down to write last week. I accomplished zilch due to being sick. And that would normally prompt me to write a long, scathing letter of defeat. Except the journal is meant to be uplifting—the antithesis to my usual internal dialogue. So what hit the page was the complete opposite of what I WANTED to say to myself.

And the longer I wrote, the more I realized it needed to come out here.

Here’s hoping it connects with you the same way.

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I am sick.

I am sick, and there are days when I can’t function. Days when the most my body is capable of is breathing, circulation, and a sad parody of digestion. Tasks I hesitate to label “useful”—except they are. They get me from one twenty-four period to the next (more or less). Lying in bed or on the couch watching mindless television provides my brain with the time it needs to orchestrate my cells through their crippled dance to get me to the days I can function. This only happens when my body gets the rest and recuperation it requires.

I am sick. I don’t “work” the way others do. There’s no time clock or punch card within my nerves. I don’t track the hours my tissues spend unraveling and piecing themselves back together. No supervisor watches as I push my limbs through pain. I accumulate no pay raises or time off when I bite back a gasp or scream. But I am answerable to my body when it cries as I ignore its demands for a break. And I lose years from my retirement plan every time I insist, “I’m not tired” despite being past the point of exhaustion.

I am sick, and expecting the impossible of myself is unrealistic. I’m a human being—however imperfect and broken of one I may be. There are limits to my energy. My parts and pieces are delicate and prone to failure at the most inopportune moments. The less I care for myself, the more likely it is I will face a collapse—whether I like to admit that truth or not. If I acknowledge my limits and establish (reasonable) boundaries, the odds of thriving (however that looks) increase. However, that means recognizing a life without bad days is not reasonable.

I am sick. There’s no shame in uttering and owning up to those words. My body is defective. I fall apart a little more with each passing day. Pieces are already missing, and the odds of more following are not in my favor. But I am still here. Despite the constrictions of my illness, I breathe, I circulate blood and lymph, and I digest most of the food and liquid I consume. I also think—however imperfectly—and laugh and love. Between the inevitable hiccups that send me stumbling, I exist. I am living.

I am sick. When I break down, I don’t need to justify the time required to recover. Sleeping late, lying in a semi-comatose blob, and staring in incomprehension at absolutely nothing for hours are acceptable methods of recuperation. There’s no reason for me to feel guilty. I’m granting my brain the peace it needs to enact what repairs it can. The cycle of work, collapse, and rest is part of my skewed life. Far from glamorous or ideal, it’s a pattern I can accept. Because it allows me a place in the world. I stumble, I fall, I crawl, and then I get back to my feet.

I am sick. But I answer to no one but myself. When I move, when I stop, when I sleep, when I play—the decision rests on my shoulders. The consequences of my actions also fall on me. If I choose to push beyond my limits, I must accept the impending breakdown. But when I acknowledge my body’s needs, I must stand ready to defend my rest. No one—myself included—has the right to cause me shame or guilt. I understand my illness better than anyone. And I will protect myself. Because while I am sick, I am still a human being. And I deserve to be seen and treated as one.

I am sick. But I am living while sick. And I will not forget that.