Dear Francesca,

Erased thoughts and words...lots of them. Today I can’t seem to articulate what I want to say. Nouns, verbs, prepositions...they all rush in at once, or wait like wallflowers. I feel like a frustrated schoolteacher trying to get children to stand in a straight line.

Although I often think about illness and how I view it, I haven’t written those thoughts down. I have read the words of others who say that one must accept illness. I’m missing some sentences in my script, though, because I can’t seem to understand how to do that.

One obstacle to my acceptance is my workplace and how I get treated and the comments I receive. I don’t mean to sound as if I am blaming them for anything; blame isn’t part of the picture here. But there is such a lack of understanding on their part. They can’t see the pain that hits me across the back, the pain that grips inside, the pain that pierces my hips. Even though I have stated that many days I come to work I am in pain and would rather be in bed, they choose to chastise me for my frequent doctors’ appointments and very infrequent absence otherwise. That catch-22 of pain is always present: if you complain, you are a whiner; if you don’t complain, there must not be anything wrong with you.

Another question I have is how I view myself now. So many things have changed as a result of illness: I can’t keep up with housework because I am in pain or too tired; I am barely able to make it through an 8 hour work day. I don’t go out on the weekends; I stay home and attempt to recharge. I have no energy for a social life. Now and then I ask myself: am I setting myself up as a martyr? In some self-absorbed way, do I want this pain? I’d be lying if I said I didn’t feel a little bit sorry for myself, but I really do not want this pain. I don’t want to play the role of the invalid. I’d rather be able to go camping, hiking, visit the museum, go to art fairs, etc. I’d rather have a normal life.

And then there's the ever-lingering depression and its languorous words: just give up. aren't you tired of it all? stay in bed, don't bother going to work. you'll always be on the outside. Somedays those words are at a low hum, and other times they rise up like waves smashing against rocks. Sometimes writing helps to purge those shadows. Other times it seems to make the shadows stronger. Where is the line between absorption and denial?

Yours,
Hannah Iona