I tire of my body. I tire of my pain. I tire of the whirlwind scraping the walls of my skull. I tire of the weeping willow cracking and sprouting within thine eyes. I tire of courage. I tire of strength. I tire of personal earthquakes that make morning coffee a joke! I tire of cramping: calf, thigh, colon, uterine, thumb or otherwise. I tire of the pills, pills, the mountain of pills.

I tire of saying,” Let’s see how many spoons I have left tomorrow before I commit to any plans”. I tire of the stares as I role along , mohawked in the handiCRAP motor carts of the stores. I tire of doctors, nurses, interns, psychiatrists, plumbers, housewives, dog-walkers, & neighbors thinking I’m on drugs. In fact, I tire of being on prescription drugs just NOT the ones society ASSumes. I tire of my tattoos solidifying their judgments.

I tire of friends walking away. I tire of hearing,” I tried, but I just can’t handle you on_________(insert medication here)” “You’re just too much of a downer.” “You make me physically sick when you talk about the **** that is your life”, “It’s just too much to look at you after coma. It’s all I see now and it’s simply too hard.” I tire of reaching out and hearing the phone click dead. (oops, must’ve dropped you; DAYS ago) because THEY can’t handle MY suffering. I tire of hearing,” Don’t talk like that, you have to stay more positive!” when discussing logic in regards to my illness.

Likewise I tire of getting my rare visitors all on the same day, then nothing for weeks on end. I tire of the silent song of my cell phone. She sings so quietly, I need not even carry her. I tire of being the reliable friend & counselor of use only in what I can do to help others, I tire of wondering where they are when I need them.

I tire of being ” Of No Consequence”. I tire of art being my daytime companion until my husband or my mother check in. I tire of needing to “take a break” when out and about. I tire of being the victim. I tire of being the survivor. I tire of the morning migraines the I affectionately refer to as,” Nothing like an aneurism first thing in the morning.” I tire of all the medical equipment. I tire of my (un)health(y) journal.

I tire of not being able to drive, shop, dance, jump rope, ride a motorcycle, roller skate, wrench on hot rods, & go in a mosh pit. I tire of feeling 80 at 38. I tire of the bad news my doctors bestow. I tire of staring at the contents of my hope chest. I tire of hospital bills. I tire of stressing my loved ones out.

I tire of injections to make me “better” that end up getting me 5150’d due to an adverse reaction. I tire of the hot flashes, night terrors, flashbacks, fear, sweats, hopelessness & bad thoughts. I tire of being trapped in my mind and caged by my body. It’s a horrid place to live…

Tired. Tired like an overworked mother.

My disease is my child. Always tugging on my shirt sleeve. Constantly screaming for attention. Absorbing my time. Only this is a child I CAN NOT hire a sitter for so I can go out and have a time of it. My version of a “babysitter” comes in the form of opiates. Yes this can get me out of the house, but my communications with the populous are hazy and lazy. Too long to think up a response and even longer to ATTEMPT to get the words past the tip of my tongue.

I’m tired of being a mother to illness. Tired of needing spoons.

Written by staff writer, Sonja McDaniel

Sonja is a 38 year old female with an autoimmune issue undiagnosed for 13 years. Living in the SF Bay Area surrounded by a wonderful husband, a mom and all of our rescued critters. She is living proof that you can’t judge a book by it’s cover! Sonja is a self-described punk looking, art making, book reading freak! She goes by sacredjinx on our butyoudontlooksick.com message boards.