I have nothing new to say. The words I’m about to type have been typed by me and many before me. They’re not new, and I hate typing them.
I am tired of being sick.
I am not just tired of being sick, though. I am tired of being tired. I’m tired of being depressed. I’m tired of people not understanding my situation. I’m tired of not being able to explain my situation. I’m tired of not having answers. I’m tired of being told to be patient for answers. I’m tired of not talking about being sick because I’m worried that I talk about it too much. I’m just really tired.
It’s not going to magically get better anytime soon. I’ve been getting comfortable with the idea that I’ll always be sick and that this is just a part of me now. There is no Doctor House for me. This will not be over in a period of time that an episode of TV can cover. And yet, I must keep up hope, that there is some magical cure out there for me. I must at once accept my status quo and reject it. I must not talk about what I’m facing, because it’s big and dark and scary and sometimes really gross. But at the same time, I must be courageous and fight this battle and speak my mind.
I am tired.
I’m tired of this being such a big part of me.