The last two weeks, I’ve gone from the flu to pneumonia. I’m on day twelve of being more or less bedridden. I can’t begin to express how awful I feel. But looming even worse over my physical condition is the realization that I’ve had to do this all alone. I’ve spent a fair amount of time fighting with myself, trying not to cry pitifully because it really, truly, makes me feel worse in unimaginable ways, but I can’t help it. Spending all my time lying in bed by myself makes me think pretty long and hard about a lot of things. I’ve thought a lot about the statistics that show when people don’t have loved ones to support them through major physical illnesses, they tend to just die. I’ve thought a lot about how if I were 62 instead of 26 this would have killed me. I’ve thought a lot about how truly lovely it would have been to have someone else help me with groceries when I finally ran out of food rather than having to ask total strangers to help me put food on the belt, to get my cart to the car, and then to collapse into my driver’s seat after a two-hour-long trip yielding four whole bags of groceries, crying, shaking, and coughing my lungs out just to wonder how the hell I was going to get things into my house once I got home.
There’s nothing that really quite hits the point home that you’ve got a staggeringly limited amount of people who care for your wellbeing than spending two weeks by yourself with a terrible illness. I’ve gotten calls from both parents, which has been nice. They both live on the opposite side of the country, unfortunately, but I can say someone does care if I live or die, at least. I’ve got three roommates, but not one of them has approached me in any way offering help, condolences, or even conversation, and I don’t know how to ask people for help when they never offer it. I certainly don’t have any friends checking in on me, or anyone I feel comfortable asking for help from (see: not knowing how to ask people for help who never offer it). I don’t even know why I’m putting anything here, which is a subject I’ve written about before, because if I know anything about human interaction, it’s that sharing your woes about how people don’t care for you only alienates you from them even more (though let’s be honest, no one I know personally actually reads this), but as I lie in bed, I cycle through these thoughts over and over again. I’m a writer, so I torture myself with repetitions of these thoughts until they would sound good in written form, and finally, I had to get up and write them. I figured this was the safest place. Lord knows I planned some really scathing Facebook statuses, but… well, I can be honest enough with myself to know that even if I am airing my feelings, I will -never- get the desired effect from that platform.
It’s made me so sad, though, this whole process. I don’t have anyone to ask for water; if my cup is empty I have to grit my teeth and drag myself through the exhaustion and the wracking, coughing fits that come from the mere effort of going up and down stairs, or weigh just how dehydrated I’m allowed to let myself get. If I’m hungry (which fortunately, hasn’t been often) I have to cook. I can’t even stand long enough to take a shower without getting dizzy. If I do manage to bring food up, the dishes will only get to the dishwasher if I take them there. I am immensely depressed. I just wish I could connect with people somehow… I feel like my emotional survival depends on it, but I don’t know what I’m doing. I can’t keep a friend to save my life, literally. Even the one I managed to make here doesn’t speak to me anymore, and she cites “being overwhelmed” as why I never hear from her. I know what that means, overwhelmed by me, my sadness, my negativity, my own image problems. I thought I’d found a kindred spirit with a similar view on life, someone who understood where I was coming from, but all I did was compound her problems with my own and get cut off. So much for that.
Bleh. I might as well end this sob story now. I just needed to … put words out there, I guess, because I need help, somehow. I see a future that’s pretty dim, I see myself eventually dying because I have no support to speak of, I see myself being that statistic, and I see myself wondering why I have to slog through all this at all. I guess my writing is some little cry for help, and it’s melodramatic, probably, but I don’t know how to human (verb) properly enough to get real help from anyone, and I only ever isolate myself further by crying out—oh, the melodrama, oh, the bitterness, she’s so disillusioned and pathetic and negative. I’m great with acquaintances, but the real relationships with support will forever be lacking in my life. I’ve got 26 years experience to know that I don’t know how to achieve those. I don’t suspect much will change in the next 40. My therapist is great, but she can’t change the world around me, so I don’t know how I’m ever going to be well. I don’t fit in, I’m not welcome, I don’t like it here, I don’t like life. I don’t know if a sense of belonging and wellbeing can ever be something I have.