Illness is romantic and cute until you're living it.
If I see one more novel or book about ~uwu small sick cute girl~ or meet one more person that romanticizes the fact that I'm feeble and aware of my mortality I'll snap.
No, illness is a pain in the ass. It's a source of mental and physical pain and burden and tears and a million other things I could go on about.
This life has been waiting for death.
This life has been controlled by illness.
The only way to describe the past sixteen years of my life is to live in a cage.
I can't live like this anymore.
Some people can live with my condition and lead normal lives. Some can't. I'm one of the few that can't.
I wake up- it's another day playing ping pong with my life.
Up, down, up, up, up, click, click, down, up, down. 5 to 6. I win today- barely. We'll play the game through the night, and tomorrow, and the day after that, and the week after that, and the month after that, and the year after that until I take my last breath.
Why would I hope to wake up to play another round? Because I'm scared of death. I'm scared now that I've been put into this world.
Illness is anxiety and anxiety is illness and none of it is romantic.
I've seen death and it's painful, dark, and nothing like the people with fantastic near death experiences talk about.
Elvis isn't at the end of the tunnel and grandma definitely isn't waiting to meet you. Grandma's soul never existed and she's a bag of bones six feet under. Elvis was just an asshole. Darkness is waiting at the end of the tunnel and that's a hard thing to accept.
God won't save your soul, Valhalla isn't waiting for you, and Allah definitely doesn't have 72 virgins waiting for your three-inch dick. You aren't going to suck, fuck, and feast for eternity after all of your earthly troubles are over. Sorry. You're just going to have to do those things while you're here.
Death isn't romantic. Death hurts. If you're awake for it, even barely, it'll be the most painful thing you've ever experienced. I can't put it into words. I can tell you that fading into darkness is comforting in its own way because good god- the pain finally ends. And that pain isn't just in your chest, it isn't just in your leg or stomach or whatever. No, this pain consumes your entire body and you can't even get noises out to express the kind of agony you're in. Death is a relief.
And yes- there's some level of comfort that the universe takes what it gives but I've seen death one too many times to give up now. My little body decided to fight hard many times because fuck, this illness can't be my end, but it will be. I'd rather die in a freak accident or get eaten by an alligator or something a little more lighthearted, but that won't happen. I'll keep hoping that a murderous clown takes me out with a bullet to the skull. Maybe a piece of an airplane will smack into my windshield and impale me. I've had plenty of time to come up with scenarios better than dying in a hospital bed.
I've spent my life documenting everything. Consult my stack of photo albums, journals, or old videos. I don't want everyone to have to take the walk of shame to Goodwill to donate my six bags of clothing and other useless shit. And please, for the love of everything that's good and sacred, don't make a blanket out of my shirts. I'll come back from the grave just to smack you. And don't say I was the nicest person you've met and sing my praises when you know full well that I was human and capable of being a huge asshole like everyone else.
There's nothing romantic about planning a funeral.
You can tell me that I'm not a burden as much as you want. I'll never believe it. I complicate the lives of anyone I touch and I'm sorry for that.
Sick people aren't your personal project. I haven't met a single chronically ill person that doesn't want to shove a rod up your ass if you keep trying to think their lives are something for you to take over.
We want independence more than you can imagine, so let me put it very nicely- fuck off with your hero complex bullshit.
This all comes at a cost to others, so let me give you a small list of the things I'm sorry for that others say aren't a big deal:
The roommates that have watched me eating raw meat or puking all over the house or asking to get taken to the hospital during odd hours of the night.
My mother being called over and over to come to the hospital or to my house because Carolina's dying again.
My father that's spent a good chunk of his salary keeping me alive even though he doesn't have to. (But if you want to take me in as your personal project and pay my medical bills please do- I'll just scribble angrily about it and it'll stay out of my system)
The neighbor's kid that watched me have back to back seizures with a bunch of people piling around me and shouting in an attempt to keep me with them.
The times I've thrown glasses of orange juice screaming because my brain wasn't getting enough glucose.
The times I embarrassed my ex in front of his friends because I had ketones and went to the bathroom to lay on the floor for two hours.
The million times I've canceled things I want to go to for the past few months because I can barely stand up without wanting to fall over.
…or all the times those around me thought I was going to croak right in front of them.
The list goes on. Bottom line- you can't tell me it isn't a burden or an issue or no big deal because it is. I'm sorry.
None of these things are romantic.
If you're going to write another romcom about a sick girl and a healthy male, at least make it realistic.
