By Allison Jonergin
I still haven’t learned how to talk about my health issues. I feel so different from everyone around me. I’m making my peace with the life I lead, over and over every day. But there is this fear of disconnection that erupts inside me when faced with talking about these things with someone else.
I feel like my entire life is an asterisk, an exception.
Going out to eat? It’s hard to find places to eat where I have options. Going out to drink? I’m exhausted, and the thought of standing and walking around for hours is enough to make me scream internally for a rest. Going for a hike? I wish I could come and bring my dog along. I’m sure she’d love it. But it’s too vigorous for me.
Those things aren’t big deals, at least not to me. But it comes to explaining why I’m not eating what was ordered, or why I won’t go out for the night at 10 p.m., or why I’m not joining in for a hike, it’s difficult.
Any answer that doesn’t include my health issues feels insufficient and like a lie by omission. Answers that do include health information feel like downers and like I’m sharing too much information.
“I have irritable bowel syndrome, and I can’t tolerate that food.”
“I live with chronic fatigue, so it’s important I get enough rest.”
“I have fibromyalgia and have chronic pain, so hiking is too hard on the body for me.”
It takes everything to ask, “Can we do this instead?” when I really mean, “Maybe you can do that with another friend. If we are going to hang out, I need you to meet me halfway and do something that won’t set me back for a week.”
Connecting with friends is priceless, no matter what we are doing. For this reason, I’m tempted to forego looking after my health and go along with whatever the plan is. When I do, I end up paying dearly for it. I awake feeling as though I’ve slept under a giant boulder. A migraine graces my head before I can pull off the covers. It takes all of my energy and willpower to get out of bed, but that’s the easy part. The real challenge is showering and getting ready for the day. Having a routine makes it easier for my mind to wander, erasing the agony of being aware of every painful movement.
Finally, when I’m ready, I’m burnt out. I’m ready for a nap. But ultimately I’m happy for the experience of spending time with others, even if it means my To Do list becomes a stranger for a week.
Finding the balance between being able to see friends and taking care of myself feels like a personal problem. Talking about my health issues with others feels like I’m putting that responsibility of them, and that’s the last thing I want to do. I’ve yet to figure it out and I’ve been saddled with these issues for years.
To open myself up to inquiries into the most personal area of my life means to be vulnerable, to accept the risk of rejection. I don’t know why it’s so hard, but it is.
Seeing that soft, sympathetic look overtake the faces I’m speaking to makes my face burn with shame. I don’t share details of my life to evoke feelings of sorrow or pity. I do so when I feel my audience is entitled to an explanation and hope one would join us closer in understanding.