I did a stupid thing and I got a part time job. A basic 9-5 type of job. A cashier/bagger combination down at a local grocery store in the next town over. I haven’t held a job in over two years. Not since the wheelchair, the Schizoaffective Disorder, the seizures, and the chronic pain, and the suicide attempt. It’s only about fifteen hours a week, barely part time.
I did a stupid thing and I got a part time job.
I told my boss I have to take meds three times a day and can’t work past three in the afternoon. Because I still need time to go home and cry at how bad my body hurts. Time to come home and electrocute myself into numbness with my tens unit. Time to choke down too many ibuprofen. Time to spend too long in the shower. Time to do my therapy prescribed stretches. Time to come down off the high of hearing derogatory voices all day. Even after staying faithful to my antipsychotic for almost two years, I still hear voices constantly. A droning noise of voices. A sinister John Carpenter amalgam of sound. Every time I try to do something good for myself the voices are always right there. Always reminding me that I’m going to fail.
Can I even handle a job?
I’d much prefer to stay home and stare out the big bay window at the apple trees. 50/50 it will rain or shine but I can always feel the rain in my head regardless. Psychosis pulling my soft brain apart like sticky cobwebs.
You might ask what it’s like to live with chronic mental and physical illnesses. I’ll let you know what it’s like. It’s like your body and mind are fighting a war against the one thing meant to keep them alive. It feels like you were born to be destroyed.
I did a stupid thing and I got a part time job. Will my illnesses ceasefire? I doubt it. Chronic illness waits for no healing. A ravaging train with no breaks. It’s an unwelcome guest in a body I didn’t even get a chance to learn to love.
Days spin into nights and into days again. Summer dragging on and on. A hot beast by August every year, a threatening season despite its spring relation. By the end of summer, the ground is cracked and dry like the heels of my mother and her mother’s mother’s dry pale skin. Even the birds are tired by the end of August and all the people are angry and hot. But then the days get cooler and the fist of fall hits me on the chest, breaking me open at my breastbone to reinstill my winter bone ache. The blow forcing my lungs to expel very last breath of summer air. The leaves fall from the trees until they are thin skeletons, standing like a relic of another year gone by. Then it’s winter and the tight-lipped holiday season passes by. The ice moves in and we in Maine are buried by seasonal Nor’Easters until we are up to our throats in snow. My skin grows cold and my pale sinew is stretched over the bones of early nights. Wintertime depression moves on me like a ghost.
And before I knew it another year in sickness passes me by.
I think back on it. All my exhaling between my doctor’s appointments. I offer up my white arms for blood tests and I’m poked, prodded and rearranged until I feel unlike myself. Grilled with the same monotonous questions again and again. How are the voices? The pain? The sadness? Do you still hurt all the time? Have your migraines changed? Are you still sleeping too much? Eating too much? How’s your lower back? Do those terrible cluster headaches still wake you in the early morning, covered with sweat? Is your pulse still tachycardic? And that wakes you too when it races at night? How are the hallucinations? Are they still trying to read your mind?
The answers grow in the back the of my throat and are forced up from my stomach, rattling around my mouth like bitter candy in a plastic bag, “I’m fine,” I say and make my next appointments.
Then six months of winter lapses.
Then summer comes again.
Then fall, winter, and spring.
Being chronically ill means being ill forever.