Yesterday, I said I was sick. My symptoms of Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome (PCOS) were flaring up. I assume that the cysts on my ovaries were rupturing because the nausea and pain wouldn’t go away. With the shower running, I laid on the bathroom floor just wishing it would stop. Whenever it starts to hurt, I get sad. I might not be able to have kids, but that doesn’t stop the pain. They say that PCOS is manageable, but yesterday I was just sick.

Last week, I said I was sick. Nothing sounds appetizing, even when I wasn’t nauseous. 11 pills went into my body that morning, just like usual, but I was still sick. My bed won the battle that day, and I just couldn’t move. I didn’t go to school or answer my phone. I told everybody that I stayed home to do homework, which was true. After 3 hours, I finished my homework but I was exhausted. I felt like I just ran a 5k while trying to complete a freaking sudoku puzzle. My body ached, and so did my mind. So I slept, because I was sick.

A few weeks ago, I was sick. I showed up to therapy, even though I didn’t think I would. She noticed that my nail beds were all in pretty rough shape, but at least they were not actively bleeding. We talked about coping skills and triggers and how my psychiatrist thinks I’m recovering. I left and went home, and sat on the bathroom floor with the shower running. I didn’t answer my phone, and nobody tried to reach out anyway.

Last month, I was sick. At 11 p.m., fraternity guys shutdown their party. The mood shifted, followed by yelling and hurrying out. I got to my car, and I had some other people with me. My heart was racing and my hands were shaking and I couldn’t breathe. March 19, 2017, kept racing through my head. That night, the mood shifted and people ran and screamed. Except for that night, somebody brought a gun to the party and decided to start shooting, while the frat party was just a gas leak. It doesn’t matter if I was safe or not, I told my friends I was sick and it was time to go home.

A couple years ago, I was sick for a long time. I hurt myself so badly that I was hospitalized because nobody would listen when I told them I was sick. So when I say that I’m sick it could be a lot of things. It could be the depression or the anxiety or the PTSD or the BPD tendencies or the PCOS or the chronic pain. It could be a “real illness,” but either way I hurt and I’m sick. So yes, I’ll continue to use the word “sick” instead of explaining myself because I know people don’t actually care, so I’ll save my breath.