I wish I could tell you that everything is fine and nothing hurts today. But that would be a lie.
It’s hard to explain that I can feel every single bone, ligament, tendon, and nerve in my body. But I can.
You don’t want to hear about how I can hear every sound in this room, from the lights buzzing to the photocopier running. But I can hear them all, and they feel like daggers in my head and ears.
If I could describe to you how scary it is to lose things you once took for granted, from your memory to your independence, to your ability to walk, would you believe me? Because I’m terrified every day.
I wish I could tell you that this is something that would get better in time, but I don’t want to get your hopes up. Or my own.
It’s hard to explain to you, and everybody else who asks, why I’m not at work today. It’s hard to explain it without crying or breaking down.
You don’t want to hear that something else is wrong or hurting, or breaking, because it’s overwhelming and you feel helpless. But something else hurts every day and I can’t stop it, either.
If I could describe to you how scared I am, because some days it’s all so horrible I want to die, would it help you or I? Would you want to hear it? Would you have me locked away?