It’s Monday afternoon, and the house is quiet in a way that would normally feel peaceful… but it doesn’t. The kids left for school after eight. Since then, it’s just been me, my body, and the relentless thoughts in my head.
I’m sick again; feverish. My congested nose makes breathing difficult, and I feel heavy pressure in my face, as if someone packed it with concrete. My throat is raw, scraped down by coughing that doesn’t politely wait for a pause. It’s the cough that takes over your chest and demands attention whether you’re ready.
Every time it happens, my side pain detonates. I brace myself before coughing, trying to make it quieter. I act as if I can negotiate with my body by controlling my breath and movements. There I sit, holding, measuring seconds, anticipating the pain’s retreat, allowing regular breathing to resume. This becomes my existence: negotiating with fundamental functions individuals rarely consider.
I had two appointments this morning. I rose from my bed, paused in the kitchen, gazing at it, hoping everything might sort itself with delay. As my girls got ready, I moved slowly, deliberately, choosing each motion carefully, conserving energy the way you would if you weren’t sure how much you had left. Inside, one quiet thought nudged toward cancellation, toward pausing, to remain. Another, more familiar, pushed onward.
So I did.
I left the house and showed up, answered the questions, and nodded at the right times. I made it through the first appointment on momentum alone, the kind that carries you when stopping feels more dangerous than pushing through. My body protested the entire time, but I ignored it the way I’ve learned to do after years of not having another option.
Appointment number two also required in-person attendance. By then, I felt that familiar warning creeping in, the one that tells me I’m about to overdraw what paltry amount of spoons I have left. So I messaged and asked if it could be virtual instead. Their agreement brought immediate relief. It wasn’t because it was easier, but because I wouldn’t have to push myself.
My appointment ended, and now I’m here… stretched out under the blankets, fever warm and aching, coughing in uneven bursts, head pounding, my side screaming louder with every breath. Around me, the house feels like a physical reflection of what’s happening inside me. Dishes waiting. Laundry half done. Clutter that has multiplied quietly while survival has taken priority; the mess that whispers you’re falling behind, even when you know you haven’t stopped trying.
What hurts isn’t the mess itself. It’s the sense that no matter how hard I work to catch up, the ground keeps tilting. Even when the kids aren’t home and the house is “quiet,” my body refuses to give me the space to recover or get ahead. It just keeps demanding more.
I’m angry today. Not at anyone in particular. Just angry that this cycle keeps repeating. Angry that I can’t get my footing. Angry that I don’t get normal sick days where you curl up, drink something warm, sleep, and wake up better. Being sick on top of chronic pain isn’t just being sick… it’s being sick while already depleted. It’s coughing until your eyes water because it ignites pain you were already barely managing.
I think about how well I hold it together in front of everyone. I move through appointments with practiced composure, smile when expected, answer questions clearly… performing “fine” convincingly enough that no one questions it.
And then, the moment I’m alone… everything gives way.
That’s what this is. The collapse. The point where there’s no one to reassure, no one to manage impressions for, no reason to pretend I’m coping better than I am. Just me, lying in bed, skin hot with fever, head clogged and aching, my side flaring violently, especially when I cough.
It’s Monday afternoon, and I don’t need advice. I don’t need encouragement wrapped in positivity, no need to be told I’m strong. I require uttering the truth aloud. This is hard, and I’m tired of living like my body gets to decide whether I’m allowed to have a life on any day.
