You don't see me, not really. You see the mask I've carefully crafted over years of imperfect practice.
You see me on Facebook; all the pictures I bombard you with. You see me picking out pumpkins and climbing toys at the park but you don't see me crying in the bath, water so hot it burns my skin, trying to stop the ache because every joint in my body feels like they've been in a head on collision with a semi; the surrounding tissue and ligaments stretched until broken.
You see my positive posts and the inspirational bullshit I try to flood my overactive brain with. You don't see the blood and ruined skin of my fingernails because I compulsively pick them. You don't see me standing in front of the mirror twisting into a human pretzel trying to find an angle I can actually like. You don't see me scrubbing layers of dry skin from my face and hands or slathering myself in extra strength lotion so my skin doesn't split open and bleed.
You don't see me researching different ring braces and crying over the prices, cursing disability because I can't afford to help my joints stay in place.
I'm too poor to be disabled.
You don't see me unable to hold a spoon because my fingers aren't working; they just stop. Every nerve and muscle in them suddenly becomes jelly that's dripping in the sun. Droopy. Not there.
You don't see me unable to sleep::
Is the door locked? All 3? Did we leave the heater on? Or the stove.. oven? Is the fridge working? What if the freezer stops working? Will everything go bad? We can't afford for everything to go bad.
You don't see me collecting pillows like a childhood obsession because I can't sleep without them. I have to stack them perfectly underneath my joints so I don't hyperextend in my sleep or ache too much to close my eyes without wishing for death.
So I don't dislocate something rolling over.
You don't see me spending nights in the ER; my pain finally too much to control. I try desperately to hide it from my kids with lies and laughter.
You don't see me unable to pick up my kids because it stretches and pops my shoulders and elbows out. It's excruciatingly difficult to keep a child from falling when your arm doesn't work for a moment.
You don't see me questioning myself until I'm crying too hard to breath. Life with an invisible illness means constantly being worried because, "it's not real" and "you're not trying hard enough." Living with a lifelong prison sentence inside a barely functioning body can be just as devastating as a fatal diagnosis.
But no one believes that.
You don't see me debating whether or not I can physically afford to shower; weighing how long it's been against the pain invading every cell of me. Most people get 15 spoons but I'm lucky to have 7 and that includes just getting out of bed in the morning. Is it worth it?
You don't see the brain fog. The repeat calender entries and notes and reminders that I need but still end up forgetting.
You don't see me with Steven - him trying to help hold my body together with tape and prayer.
You don't see me frustrated because my back is so flexible and curved that it's permenently damaged itself.
You don't see me.
You don't see.
