[Nevertheless] The Sun Rises

Often when people with chronic illness and chronic pain talk about the facts of their existence, it's seen as complaining. I often talk about what I'm experiencing as someone who lives with untreated chronic pain and multiple chronic illnesses. Rarely do I complain. 

Recently someone asked me to describe a typical day living in my body. I responded that there is no typical day, but rather undercurrents of illness that run through my days - some more tricky to navigate than others.

All I want to do is fall asleep. For hours I concentrate on relaxing my body, eventually drifting off only to wake to pain shortly thereafter. I wake over and over in twenty, fifteen, sometimes ten minute increments, never soundly sleeping. Eventually I feel as if it must be close to morning. My heart drops when the clock reads 1:43AM. It's been less than two hours of tortuous slumber.

I get up to heat my rice sock, empty my bladder, and refill my water bottle. Climbing back into bed, I struggle to find a position that doesn't cause one part of my body or another to spasm within minutes. Hours later, utterly exhausted, my body finally succumbs to sleep.

All I want to do is go back to sleep. Nevertheless, the sun rises and another day must begin. My husband wakes me again, insisting this time that I eat and take my meds. I manage to rouse myself enough to realize that he's right - and that failing to do so could mean my life. If I don't take my morning steroids and fall back to sleep, I could go into adrenal crisis. 

Awake now, I push nausea aside to choke down some food. Brain foggy, I reach for the meds I've prepared in compartments of a pill organizer. If I didn't dole out my medications and supplements into their corresponding compartments when my mind is clear, I'd have difficulty remembering to take them and what I need to take when. I might also forget whether or not I'd taken my morning or evening meds, which can be dangerous for me to forget. 

Grabbing my phone, I groggily check my calendar for the day to determine how long I can put off emerging from my cocoon. It's 7:30AM. I've slept a grand total of two or three hours after going to bed at 10:30PM. I'm more exhausted now than when I first climbed beneath the covers.

And my day has just begun.
Most days begin this way. Seldom do I get a decent night's sleep. Rarely do I awaken refreshed. 

This is my reality. When I say I'm exhausted at 9AM, I'm not exaggerating. I'm not complaining. I'm speaking my truth. When I need to sit or lay down and rest at 1PM, I'm not being lazy, I'm trying my best to make it through the rest of the day without collapsing.

So please, when someone you know who lives with chronic illness says they're tired or exhausted, believe them. And don't only believe them, support them. Let go of the compulsion to compare your sleeping habits or troubles with theirs, suggest they go to bed earlier, or otherwise minimize their struggle. Trim away judgment and pity to offer true compassion and friendship.