On the Days I Wonder If I Am Chronically Alone


That’s what it costs to get the children fed on a chronically bad morning. I’ll confess I am chronically ill. Tomorrow I will chronically deny it and tell you I’m fine. Today I admit it. Not as an excuse. It really is a bad day. I’m chronically fatigued and chronically in pain.

Especially my left second toe. It hurts so bad I cannot bear for the sheets or socks to touch it. And I chronically wonder if I’m alone. I chronically wonder if I can make it funny. And I chronically wonder if I will feel better tomorrow.

It isn’t funny. I chronically question why I’m laughing. I have a love-hate relationship with Facebook thanks to chronic flashback notices. I saw a flashback of my first half-marathon. Sigh. I have traveled 1,000 miles in five years flat on my back. Well, four years. It was a year after that I tore my calf muscle and got plantar fasciitis. And that started my descent into chronic.

Chronic steroid injections were the first culprit. But it doesn’t matter because here I am. Chronic. Chronically tired. Chronically weak. Chronically grumpy. Chronically chubby. Chronically blah.

And I want to be chronically comfortable. Chronically fit. Chronically energized. I just am not. And it’s is getting cold out. I have the chronic metabolism of a Barbie and the body temperature to match. I chronically dread the change of seasons. I’m chronically told I don’t look sick. And I have my loves that help get me through, and they know lots about what plagues me, and I chronically seek their wisdoms. And then I get a chronic headache. And all I want to do is sleep and eat processed carbohydrates. And the chronic circle continues.

And I feel chronically guilty because it’s not cancer, although at one point doctors thought it was. And I feel chronically sad that I chronically complain. And I’m convinced some days my family is sick of me.

And I’ve been to dozens of doctors and have chronic medical debt. I am chronically told, “Welcome to fat and 40!” Although, if they were chronic listeners, they’d have heard the whole mess started when I was 38. I’ve sat in my car outside their offices and chronically cursed them.

So I’d love to have a little cheese with my chronic whine, but I can’t have dairy. And who wants cheese if you can’t have a cracker and I’m chronically allergic to wheat. I’m chronically told what to eat and what not to eat. It’s chronically exhausting.
And I’m chronically sure I will manage. I chronically do.

In the midst of chronic abdominal cramping and chronic ickiness, I cope.

Tomorrow might be better. I chronically pray it will be.

I have friends who deal with chronic depression, chronic pain and chronic illness. We chronically rally and hold each other up. Other days the chronic struggle is chronically mine, and I just wish to be left alone.

So I had a chronic meltdown because the song playing on my iPod when I finished my first half marathon, “I’m With You…” by Avril Lavigne, came on the radio an hour after I saw the Facebook notice. I felt like a chronic failure. A failure who spends $8.65 on a chronically horrid breakfast for her chronically wonderful babies. A chronic flood of memories of when boiled eggs and fresh fruit salad were all I would feed my precious children for breakfast, on our way to 5 a.m runs. Which we chronically attended.

I feel all the pangs of chronic failure. As I barked at my daughter to hurry and eat her doughnut so we won’t be chronically late, I can hear “I’m with you…” in the background.

And they me see cry and chronically apologize. I’m assured they will need chronic counseling.

I’m chronically confident the counseling sessions will be short. I will go with them and readily admit it’s chronically my fault.

And I will chronically strive to be better. I will chronically follow my strict regime. I will chronically blog. I will be chronically honest. I will chronically speak wellness. I will chronically believe.

I’m chronically stronger than I give myself credit for. I’m chronically in love with my husband and my children. I’m chronically surviving. And on the days it hurts, it chronically sucks. But the other days I will chronically remember I’m doing my best. The children will be OK. There is joy amongst the heartache. Chronic hope that tomorrow will be better. And I’m chronically not alone.

Follow this journey on Sacred Ground Sticky Floors.

The Mighty is asking the following: What’s the hardest thing you deal with as someone with a chronic illness, and how do you face this? What advice and words of support would you offer someone facing the same thing? If you’d like to participate, please send a blog post to [email protected] Please include a photo for the piece, a photo of yourself and 1-2 sentence bio. Check out our Submit a Story page for more about our submission guidelines.

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