Underneath the Sycamore Tree

by B. Celeste

Chronic illness gives little wiggle room for peace of mind. Having “good” days doesn’t mean the pain isn’t there; it just means that it’s not as noticeable—like a limb that’s sort of falling asleep but still functioning. Days where I have energy can end abruptly for no reason other than fate playing games with me.

Pain comes in countless forms. The worst is seeing what your suffering does to everyone around you.

“Sickness isn’t pretty,” I whisper. “It turns the person you love more than anything in the world into somebody different. It isn’t just a physical transformation but a mental and emotional one. When it takes over, there’s very little in their control they can do.

Disease is the monster in the dark. It lingers, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. It rears its ugly head and takes what it wants, when it wants.

Yet there’s one disease that is worse than any kind of invisible illness in existence, and it is something the world is plagued with. Indifference.

Tolerable is contentment.

What good comes out of praying to someone nobody truly knows exists? Faith shouldn’t be blind if it’s meant to be followed. Where’s reason? Where’s proof that believing in God actually makes death any less terrifying?

So we pretend. We pretend our loved ones are still close to us. We pretend we’re okay. It’s not denial. It’s coping. It’s reassurance. It’s how we get through another day.

“Healing doesn’t mean the damage never existed. It just means that it can no longer control our lives. I sincerely hope you remember that. I know a hurt soul when I see one, boy. You and Emery are one and the same, which means you’re also tough. It doesn’t matter what battle you’re fighting. It only matters that you’re willing to fight.”

The truth is you never know how strong you are until being strong is the only choice you have.

“People have preconceived notions about illness. Like when they assume you can’t get sick unless you’re overweight or old or something. Do you know how many times people tell me I can’t possibly be this sick because I’m young? Or how many times I’ve been accused of having an eating disorder because I’m too thin? “It’s already tiring to live the way I do because my body is attacking itself, but having everyone else attack me becomes too much. I have to deal with everyone making their own conclusions about me when they hear I have an autoimmune disease. Like being told to not get stressed, like I’ll be cured for life then. And don’t get me started on those who think I’m making it up. People rely too much on what they can see because everyone says that seeing is believing. It’s never been that way though. It’s always the other way

“I want to make people’s lives as uncomplicated as possible. I already accept that mine can’t be so easy, which is why it has to be different for everyone else.”

I fight myself every single day. I fight to pretend I’m fine. To admit I’m not. To survive.