I’m sitting in the car on my own driveway, crying so hard my seatbelt is probably worried about me. I can’t move, can’t go inside, can’t face anyone. Right now, the car feels safer than the world beyond the door.
Chronic illness is like this sometimes. One moment I’m “doing okay,” and the next moment, I’m a puddle of tears, mourning the body that betrayed me… again. I want silence, I want space, and I want to let the storm pass without anyone telling me to “be strong.”
Outside, it’s been raining cats, dogs, and possibly elephants since last night. The sound on the windshield is oddly soothing, like nature trying to pat me on the back, saying, “Yep, I get it. Storms inside, storms outside. We match.”
How do I explain this to anyone? That sometimes the hardest part of chronic illness isn’t the pain itself, but the sheer exhaustion of keeping it together for everyone else. It’s hard to put into words. Harder to live it.
So, for now, I’ll stay in my little car cocoon, letting the rain do the talking while I just… breathe. Because sometimes survival doesn’t look like heroism, it looks like not opening the car door until you’re ready.