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Which as a recovering people-pleaser, I will agree to, attend, and then smash my head into the hard surface of the table while she attempts to cure my chronic illness through the power of suggestion. “Have you tried yoga?” “If you cut out gluten and dairy, you could cure it naturally.” “Your state of mind is so powerful. It’s how you choose to approach it. Think positive, and you’ll feel positive.”
My chronic fatigue is tired for her.
Apparently you can’t shake the cobwebs off a flirting game that never existed.
Except yoga is stupid. And dirt is messy. And processed cheese is neither.
“Everything hurts, but I’m fine.”
Most of the time, people are too uncomfortable with negativity and pain for honest answers. Wanting to fix it, fix me, they offer positivity and solutions, which become toxic in their frequency. I’m an optimistic person in my own way, but there’s a danger in forceful optimism and not recognizing reality.
exist in a state of perpetual pain, and I’ve had to accept that to survive—it’d be nice if others acknowledged and were okay with it. Otherwise, the guilt and anxiety of being “a downer” are put on me too.
“It is what ...
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devoting most of my mental energy to ignoring the barbed wire torturing my insides.
My soul identifies with this cheese on a deeper level than any soft, pressed, or blue-veined cheese ever could. We have the same origins, body composition, and general lackluster appeal. This synthetic cheese and I are one.
“No. I’m fine, but this—” I shake a trembling finger at him. “Nope. Nu-uh. No way. This isn’t happening. Whatever sneak attack you have planned, I’m not dealing with it. Not today, Satan. Not. To. Day.” Words lodged in my throat minutes ago fall out of me at an embarrassing speed.
My chronic illness automatically placed me a good five steps behind him, navigating life through the heavy filter of endometriosis-induced chronic fatigue and missing a week of classes monthly on account of my period. I pushed myself until I collapsed from exhaustion, only to lose to a boy who approached everything with a lazy smile and a charming cheek dimple.
A sharp twinge tortures my left ovary—a quick stab and twist of a knife. I press in on that side and breathe, dropping my mask slightly. One. Two. It doesn’t go away, but I have a life to live, so I can only devote two seconds of my sanity to caring. There’s always a pain. Just some are more manageable than others. I’ve had to learn to cope and surrender my energy reserves to ignoring them, since living life in the fetal position isn’t an option long-term.
None of this gets easier. I just have to get tougher. Hell, I am so tired of having to be tougher.
Endo warrior. That’s the nickname they give us. Sure, I would prefer a cure, but there’s no time for that when you have an erectile dysfunction crisis looming. Stodgy old cis men must be able to get it up at all costs!
Sometimes I want the freedom to be and not be strong or a warrior, and I sure as hell don’t want to be graceful.
“Life sucks hard most of the time. Let me escape into a promised land where everything works out in the end.”
below. My stress level’s becoming more of a problem because it intensifies my flares, which adds more stress, so . . . I’m flaring more. It’s a vicious circle nearly impossible to escape,
an annoying reminder I have a condition that requires rest, even when I have a million things I’d rather be accomplishing.
“Feeling up to doing something and needing to do it rarely align properly.”
Endo is exhausting. But it’s a part of my reality. We’re a package deal. And as far as modern medicine is concerned, it always will be in some capacity, or at least until they’ve solved every minute cis male ailment first.
With a squeal, my rear hits the wall, and I resort to tossing sugar at him like it’s Holy Water. “No. Back, Hades.”
And then, because my uterus is a thief of joy who simply cannot go more than five minutes without being the center of attention. It screams. Rather loudly. Everything inside of me roars with pain. Spots cloud my vision as a not-so-pleasant breathless wave takes hold of my body, and I fight to manage the words, “I’m blacking out.”
The spots clear, but the someone-gave-Stabby-the-Uterus-a-knife-and-now-she’s-living-up-to-her-namesake sensation doesn’t dissipate.
Happy,’ too?” “No, I’m very against the whole just forget about your troubles and be happy mantra. When your troubles don’t want to forget you, it’s hard to do.”
“Peaches, what are you doing?” “I’m trying to find my heating pad.” “I’ll get it. Lay your ass down.” He shoots a cutting glare in my direction. “I want to say no, but your stern face scares me.” “Good. Bed. Now.” He points over to the bed, and I salute him.
I’m tired, too tired of this portable torture chamber for a body, and I start sobbing. It’s all I’ve thought about lately; it’s even consuming my daydreams, and I’m just done. I curl further into the fetal position, pressing the heating pad to my stomach. Cold sweat beads on my forehead from the pain. Nausea intensifies, and my heart races at a dangerous level. I beg internally for a relief I know will only come when it’s good and ready. Shit. I shake, stretching out my legs and writhing because, at this point, I’m disconnected from my actions, desperately finding any way to lie that will
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“Because the truth is, my body can’t go on vacation from my disease. There’s no pretending it doesn’t exist, and feeling like a healthy twenty-something, even for a day, is as bizarre to me now as finding my own Gene Kelly. But that’s such bullshit, because when I spiral like this, I have to admit that I’ve even let it take my daydreams, you know?”
“Most people try to fix the mess, but you don’t.” “That’s because there isn’t a mess to fix. This is your life.”
Especially on a good day when I willfully ignore the whole you’re still chronically ill, even if you feel okay and you’re-going-to-crash-and-burn-again-soon reality.
Everything felt stagnant—like I was falling further behind the rest of my friends, battling to just survive and keep whatever footing I had in this world and never progressing forward.
Because a lot of the time we measure success in forever, but with my disease, I’ve had to learn to have success in fleeting moments, or else what was the point of anything?
firmly believe I shouldn’t judge another person’s pain or pain tolerance because I don’t want to diminish anyone’s plight. It’s all valid. But sometimes, I wish that in validating other people’s pain, I didn’t feel like I was diminishing my own. I understand sciatic pain is something that pregnant people experience. I understand it’s incredibly painful. I even understand that my pain cannot eradicate theirs; they both exist. But when Clare says she knows exactly how I feel, I can’t help but get the sense that it’s misplaced empathy. People don’t have to connect or commiserate to show kindness
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her trying to connect means that my own reality is not being acknowledged.
I’ve been so content staring at the immediate present for so long because when I looked ahead and tried to make goals, I usually ended up disappointed and unfulfilled.
let the words and actions of other people strip away my love for myself until it had all but vanished, and I need to find that self-love again, or no relationship I have will ever build itself on solid footing.
I’m done letting this thing take more of me than it already has. I’m done sacrificing my dreams. And I’m done not trusting that Liam means what he says. If he still wants this, he knows what he’s getting into.
