Alien
By E.T.
It doesn’t really matter what mental state I’m in at the moment; my mood can be great, yet with an unpleasant reliability, this one feeling comes over me in every social group situation. Most of the time, it’s birthdays. Because on most other occasions, I’m not around people. I’ve had ME for seven years now. Thankfully, only mild, and during the worst phases, moderate. I’ve usually been able to attend important events. Of course, not always, but still, I count myself among the lucky ones who haven’t completely lost that part of life. And yes, I should actually be really happy because of that. Most of the time, I am, but mainly beforehand, I look forward to going out and experiencing what feels like a normal day.
And then there’s this one awkward feeling that creeps in again and again, especially when strangers are present who don’t know my situation. Who know nothing about my illness, my long journey of suffering, the daily struggles, and what it means for me to be here today. Because I rest beforehand, I leave much earlier than everyone else, and afterwards, I rest again . . . for days, with worsened symptoms. I pay a price for those few hours of fun. One that isn’t easy to pay. For healthy people, celebrating together is simply a given.
They talk about their worries, and I can’t help but think: Seriously? You’re not feeling well because you had a cold for three days and still don’t feel fully energised? I don’t want to sound bitter or invalidate anyone’s problems. But when you’ve spent seven years dealing with various symptoms every day and a weakness you once only knew from all-night dancing, a statement like that can only trigger an inner irritation. And then there’s how most people treat their bodies. I can’t wrap my head around it, although I remember that my previous healthy self was the same. You think you’re invincible, untouchable. If something happens, it’ll happen to someone else. You’re safe, that’s what you know, what you feel. Until that no longer holds true, and you only understand what you can lose once it’s too late.
But yes - people talk casually about drug binges. Everyone thinks it’s funny. And I’m sitting there thinking: how can you do that to your bodies? The only pills I take are painkillers and, if you count them, an unbelievable number of supplements. And I still feel awful.
In those moments, it becomes painfully clear how different our realities are. I feel like an alien. But, an alien in a human body, no one can see that I’m from another planet. And suddenly there’s this huge distance between us. Between healthy people and me. And that makes me incredibly sad. Often, on the way home after moments like this, I start to cry. Don’t get me wrong, it’s only two or three tears, and then I’m fine again. It doesn’t weigh heavily on me, but it always comes back, and drugs are just the example that creates the biggest contrast. Other topics are often work-related or family-related. And those are often expressed by people close to me. When someone takes a big career step, or when the next friend gets pregnant, those are the moments when I’m confronted with everything I’m grieving. With the versions of myself and my future that I lost because of this illness.
Of course, there’s still hope that it’s not too late, that things could still turn around, that even with this illness, I might experience beautiful versions of myself and my life. But after seven years, I think it’s okay to grieve sometimes.
