This poor unfortunate soul ended up with me as a flat mate in my first year (her second) in uni and we bonded over a love of cake (specifically red velvet and chocolate cake) and coffee. But we developed a bond that sometimes neither of us understand! This girl has seen be run 5K five times a week and lift weights on-top of uni and a physical job where we worked at arena. She’s seen me on hormones for period-cramps (that never worked) and on sleeping pills that ensured that my alarms woke everyone up (especially her, SORRY!!) and never me all before my health really took a plummet. But she’s also been there for me for the past few years as I’ve battled this illness and being a carer in a care home. She may have not been here physically but she’s been there for me mentally/emotionally (if you’re reading this - THANK YOU!). But in her own way, she made me realise something without even trying.
I have been pretending to be well for most of my life. I’ve been hiding behind a mask since I was 11-13. My grandparents never believed me when I was sick (even when my own psychiatrist told them) and I could never show my mother any weaknesses so being sick around her was out of the question. They never did it deliberately, but I learnt from a young age that sickness meant weakness and to hide it. So now, 10 years later at the age of 24 showing someone like my fiancé was incredibly difficult.
I don’t want to bother him when he works so hard, I dont want to worry him when he has enough to worry about. I had put the mask on so well, that sometimes neither me or him could see behind it.
She also helped me realise that I had been told I was pretending to be sick for that long that even I believed it. Even on my worst days I told myself it wasn’t that bad and people had it a lot worse than me (they do but that’s not the point here) so I needed to “suck it up” and pretend that I was fine. I’ve been pretending I was fine since I was 13. And sometimes, I am fine. I even convinced myself the other weekend when I’d done 17,000 steps going to Comic Con, I’d convinced myself that I should be able to do that more regularly and that it wasn’t a physical barrier to that, it was mental. Lets just say today and yesterday that my body has reminded me that is very much physical.
I cried to her as I came to this realisation. I cried because it was so hard, I was forcing the words out of my mouth as I was saying them to one of the few people I’ve always told everything. It wasn’t her fault, it wasn’t anyone’s fault. We live in a society where at least 10years ago and still today, illness is seen as weakness. You’re seen as a hypochondriac if you always think you’re ill. The other week a co-worker asked me if my anxiety was around my health. I said yes because at the time it was but that wasn’t true. I realised that wasn’t the question. My anxiety is partly around my health, but honestly? It picks the tiniest thing that I can’t fix and fixates on it. My anxiety is about mine and my loved ones safety (which is more of a trauma response), it usually picks the only thing that I can’t control at that time or work on and then fixates on that which is why it often attaches itself to a health concern because it’s harder to problem solve. It’s on how other people see me or whether they actually like me (again, trauma response). And it annoys me to recall that conversation because (at the time I was worried about my health) but their immediate assumption was that it was ALWAYS about my health and therefore it invalidated my concerns at the time.
I eventually told my fiancé and explained all of this, and he’s been very understanding and helpful tonight. The past few days have been hard, I’ve either spent my time asleep or staring at a ceiling unable to do anything wishing that I was.
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