Elle was diagnosed with Type 1 Diabetes when she was 18. She emailed me today with this amazing piece of writing about her perspective on what it is to be chronically ill. So worth sharing!
Sentencing
It starts when they say, simply, that you
will have it for the rest of your life.
Surreal. The words are only words. Unlived.
The covert meaning waiting in the shadows
of everyday life.
Chronic. Persistent.
The world expects you to grieve, but only
now, and only for a while.
It is expected that you move on.
That you deal with the situation.
You break apart, and put yourself back
together.
That you improve.
Be strong and unaffected.
Day by day, it starts to sink in.
There is no escape, no vacation, and no
time off for good behaviour.
A daily battle must be waged.
My chronic is diabetes.
An invisible illness to those blind to the
intimations.
A circadian rhythm of blood tests, numbers,
calculations, and injections.
Interrupted only by the rare trauma of low
blood sugar.
Yet, those are merely what people glimpse.
The outward warfare caused by my inability
to produce insulin.
The inward skirmish is all mine.
Few people comprehend its blanketing nature.
The highs and lows that take physical and
emotional tolls.
The terror that comes with the repetitive
threat of dying.
The embarrassment, and the guilt. Capricious.
If I was only better at controlling this
uncontrollable thing.
My chronic is diabetes.
The quotidian battle, though excruciating,
creates equilibrium in my life.
Perilous moments.
Creating moments of gratitude and wonder.
How can others live in this
phantasmagorical world so dismissively.
Understanding the struggle.
Forming a nexus with others manacled to
this same chronic.
A bond formed only through the universal
chronic experience.
Being chronic is a life sentence; it is not
a death sentence.
