I found out today that my family doesn't believe that I'm sick. They called up today with a list of reasons why they think my brother and I are lying.
A list. As if it was a debate, as if whoever had the best argument won. As if I could lose.
And I was sitting in my room, diary open on my lap thinking two things.
one, I shouldn't have to do this. I shouldn't have to live in pain and frustration and fear and have someone doubt me. I shouldn't have to write a letter to someone not only telling them that I'm sick, but *convincing* them. How unfair.
Two, how do I tell them about being sick? In three pages or less how do I pour out all the pain? How do I explain that my wonderful mind that always loved learning, that always had a thirst to know more, suddenly can't function like it once could. Even as I write these words and my fingers fly over the keys, I'm hitting incorrect letters, and erasing my many, many mistakes. I can barely read. I wanted to be an author. I can't think of the right words, and I always prided myself on my large vocabulary.
How do I explain, that I live my life through TV shows and movies and my friends and my dreams? How do I tell someone that I've known what I wanted all my life and suddenly I have to not only lessen my desires but throw some away completely?
How can I relate the injustice of having an invisible illness? How only those who choose to see, can find my flaws.
Why can't everyone see how my eyes have gotten a little bigger, because they need to make room for crocodile tears, and how every smile is shadowed by a veil of sadness? Why can't they see that I move with a grace well above my 16 years? Why don't they know that I have a relationship with Death, that very few others possess?
Mostly, though, I don't understand why they can't tell I"m lying. They take everything at face value, and think when I happily run down to the beach, it's so I can swim. They don't know that I'm happy that I finally have a place where I can lie down and cry because I hurt so bad from keeping up the lie.
Why can't they see the unspoken words? I tell them that I had so much fun visiting my friends in New York. I don't tell them I had so much fun because my wonderful friends are content to watch movies with me. That's what I can do.
Why don't they see that after I leave their world, full of pretend health I go home, lay awake in my bed willing the pain to stop? How I've cried many bitter tears over the fact that I have to live in this Hell. This Hades where I can see what I want, I can feel it, I can taste the life I so desperately need, and feel it all being taken away from me.
How many prayers have gone unheard by the Heavens? How many desperate cries do I have to sound before someone, anyone wakes up and takes notice that I'm hurting!
I'm only one little girl, would it be so bad if I had a happy life? Would it be so terrible if I never felt pain?
And yet, as I come to terms with the pain, as I become brave, and the tears are farther and farther apart, I am once again reminded, like a slap in the face, that I don't live a life without tears.
I live a hard life, but more importantly, I live a hard life where no one believes me. And then, the tears come again and again.
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