No one ever cares about the chronically ill

My body was failing me, and I ended up living with the relative of a friend. I kept thinking I could make it work, that I could get a job, but my body and brain were failing me.

For no apparent reason, she kicked me out. She claimed the only reason she let me live there was for my friend. Wow. I’m used to having no one care about me, no one caring about what happens to me, no one making sure I’m okay, no one helping me out.

The truth is, I’m always the one no one cares about. I only had a place to live because she cared about my friend, not me. (What is is that makes him worth something and me nothing? Why am I nothing to no one, someone of no importance?) She cared nothing about me, which is why she was so willing to leave a chronically ill person to die out on the street. (I did sort of end up living somewhere, but I was very ill there and lucky I didn’t end up living on the street.)

I know the world doesn’t care.

I know this when I think about how precarious my living situations are. I wish I could just tell people that I have special needs, that I would appreciate it if they just made some minor adjustments to help me keep my sanity and well-being. But I’m really just afraid to be seen as someone who is a problem and run the risk of getting kicked out of my rental situation. And this time, I’d end up dying outside for sure. (Well, really, my health would deteriorate rapidly and my brain will barely function. I know this from past experience.) Rarely will people ever say, “Oh, I feel bad about that. I don’t mind making accommodations for you.” It’s more like, “Well, you don’t deserve it. That’s for people who pay higher rent or who can afford their own place. You have to sit here and suffer quietly or else you’ll be homeless.”

I don’t care. About anything. I am virtually nothing to the world. I don’t matter and there’s nowhere to go.

Someone called me selfish. She was trying to get me to cut ties with people in her family, somehow twisting it into saying I was selfish and that was the reason I shouldn’t associate with them. Calling the chronically ill selfish is pretty much how society works. She wasn’t about to help me out or try to accommodate for my needs. Instead she called me selfish for having special needs. For being so incapable. But not only that, she wanted me out of her world. No one cares about you. You’re just another nothing to just throw out and let die.

I’m only doing this for you because you have a friend I care about.

When do I matter? When does my life matter at all? I am nothing, nobody. Everyone cares about the elderly. Everyone cares about them getting caronavirus. Even if no one’s met them or knows them, they still matter. Why is that? Why don’t we matter?

I’m sitting here knowing that with any misstep or simple bad luck, I could end up in a worse position than I already am. I don’t even want to be where I am right now. I’m barely holding on, and really wish I could let go. I don’t want to be wandering the streets in the cold for hours feeling numb and brain-dead and confused. (Yes, that is something I’ve had to do, and that is how my body responds to being in those conditions due to my illness.) I’m so desperate for a heater to sit by. I’m so desperate for some fresh air. I’m so desperate to sleep at night. I wish I could sleep at night. But, I’m desperate for someone to care. To genuinely care.

Published by illnessislife

Sick of being so sick I can't live life. But it's been so long like this that I accept it. Illness is life. I have no other life.

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