As it is
I want to hide. I want to run away. I just wish I could escape. And not because my outside life is bad. I'm probably one of the luckiest teens. I have cool parents who are both good friends. I love all my siblings. I have a soft comfy bed that I couldn't imagine living without. I get to live on a station and ride motorbikes, drive tractors, move huge mobs of sheep, and generally be the only female out mustering amongst five odd rough-and-tumble males. Maybe that explains why sometimes a group of five females in one room can frustrate me to no end.
It's the inside me that I want to escape from. And not the very inside of me. It's not the regrets. It's not the thoughts in my head. No. What I want to run away from are the parts of me that I don't have all that much control over. I want to escape from this sickness. I want to hide from WTS that has stolen my life, yet left me with just enough of the sweet taste of it in my mouth so that I crave for more.
WTS has some horrendous symptons that on their own only seem minor and everyday. Chronic Fatigue. Headaches. no concentration. Depression. Irritability. Stomach aches and a sore back after eating. Alarming mood-swings. Yet I have a full-years experience to testify that if you combine them all at once for even a week without a short break that one person will want to scream.
Brush those facts aside though...those symptons make up the first floor. The second floor is soley for one sympton that isn't ever listed, but I think is the one of the worse. That is that a person with WTS can hide from others that they have the disease.
It's all so much to explain. My life is so hard to explain. So often I don't even try to explain simply because I don't want sympathy--I want understanding. Mum asks me how I'm going and I try to be honest. I try to explain how I feel, how my night was. But she can only understand so much. I say "tired" and she thinks of what the term tired means to her. She doesn't know my definition. She's never experienced my definition.
Nobody knows the frustration I feel. The frustration that makes me go away and cry because I can't control my emotions. I never had an anger problem. People would tell me in a startling relisation on their part, "You know, I don't think I've ever seen you get upset. You're always so patient." Now, sometimes, I have to leave a room before anyone realises that that teasing comment they just made at me made me want to yell at them. They don't realise that when they tell me on Monday that, "That next newsletter needs to go out this Thursday." That I'll sit down at my desk, see the 26 other stick-it notes I've left myself on my desk, and feel so overwhelmed that I can only sit there and feel the silent screaming of the pain in my head.
Everyone doesn't know. Everyone doesn't understand. And it's not their fault. They can look at me, I'll smile at them and how are you to know? There's always pain in my head. There's always clouds fogging up the passageways in my brain. If I again tell them that the pain and fogginess is still there, how is it any different from when I told them that morning? In truth it isn't any different. That's the point. It never changes. I always feel exhausted after eating tea. How is now different? I'll tell you: it's different because those 26 sticky-notes are still on my desk. It's different because I can't change the situation inside my head. It's different because I have no control and I'm so humiliated that I could cry.
It's humiliating because they remember that yesterday I was able to do some paperwork. And I was. But that's because I do have some resources. I can gather those resources together and get a few small things done. Once those resources are gone, though, they're gone. It's like a little baby who's still learning how to sit up. They can do it for a few minutes, then they topple, and for a time they're back on their belly until their body has mustered enough strength to have another spat at it.
I sat up for five minutes yesterday. It was wonderful. You rejoiced. But today you can't seem to understand why I'm back onto my belly. Please understand that I can't sit up just now. Please give me time. I'll try again. I promise. Just now let me lay here still, my head rested in My Father's lap. I need to cry a little; I need to gather my stength. Soon I'll try again.
But for now just give me time--please just let me cry.
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