Writing From the Couch – Part 4

Previously in this series: Part 3: This Isn't in My Head

For a long time, I thought I was better off alone.

Not because I don't love people.

Because loving people gave me more opportunities to disappoint them.

I'd watched friendships fade one canceled plan and unanswered message at a time. And honestly, I understood why.

Friendship requires participation. Other people have lives and feelings and needs. My health problems don't erase that.

After enough years of failing to be the friend I wanted to be, I came up with a solution:

Don't have friends.

It sounds bleak when I write it that plainly.

But being a recluse felt safer than being unreliable.

If I didn't let anyone get close, there were fewer people to disappoint.

Then I went to animal communication school.

I wasn't looking for friends.

I was looking for purpose.

But somewhere along the way, I found both.

I met people I genuinely connected with. I made friends. Some clients became friends. People checked on me. People noticed when I disappeared.

I remembered how incredible it feels to have people care about you.

And I realized how much I'd missed it.

Then I rediscovered the exact problem I'd tried to solve by becoming a recluse:

People I loved started messaging me.

And sometimes I couldn't answer them.

This is one of the hardest things I've ever tried to explain.

I can love you, think about you, miss you, wonder how you're doing, see your message and genuinely want to answer it—and still not respond.

Caring and capacity are not the same thing.

When pain is severe, particularly when one of my cervicogenic headaches is raging, thinking itself becomes work.

I can't organize my thoughts. I lose focus. I'm exhausted. Sometimes creating a coherent response feels absurdly difficult.

I never stopped caring.

What I've lost is the ability to consistently show that care the way I once did.

Yes.

You probably did.

And I understand exactly why this one is confusing.

Maybe you sent me a thoughtful message three days ago.

No response.

Then you open Facebook, and there I am.

I shared something. I posted a picture. I liked someone's post. Maybe I've been scrolling for twenty minutes.

So clearly I can use my phone.

Why can't I answer you?

Because those things require completely different things from my brain.

Mindlessly scrolling Facebook requires almost nothing from me. I can look at pictures, read something short, tap a heart, share something or occasionally make a simple post.

Responding thoughtfully to someone I care about requires much more.

I need to understand what you've said, remember the context, organize my thoughts, find words, engage emotionally, ask about you and actually participate in the conversation.

Ironically, you require more of the part of my brain that isn't working.

And the more important your message is to me, the more likely I am to think, I don't want to give this a crappy response. I'll answer when my head is clearer.

Then tomorrow comes.

My head isn't clearer.

Another day passes.

Now I feel guilty.

Now I owe you the original response plus an explanation for why I've disappeared.

A little text has become a task. The task becomes a mountain.

And shame takes care of the rest.

The same thing happens with plans.

If I tell you I'd love to come, I'm not secretly planning an excuse.

When I say yes, I mean yes.

The problem is that Tuesday's body can make plans that Saturday's body cannot keep.

My body changes the plans after I've made them.

I know that doesn't erase the impact on you.

If you've waited for me, rearranged your schedule, worried about me, felt ignored, or wondered whether you mattered, I am genuinely sorry.

I'm sorry how my silence affected you.

But my silence has never meant you didn't matter.

Most mornings begin with a calculation.

How much do I have today?

And where does it have to go?

There are the dogs. Medical appointments. Insurance. Bills. Food. Family. Something my husband needs. Something my mom needs. Work. Messages. Research. An errand. Something I've forgotten. Something I promised.

Something hurting.

Something new going wrong.

I use the functional part of my day on whatever has made it to the top of the list.

And almost every day I tell myself, I'll answer everyone this afternoon.

Then afternoon arrives.

By that point, my body has experienced what feels to it like a very long day. My energy drops. My focus goes. My pain often increases. My medication schedule and the medications I need later in the day create additional limitations.

So the part of my day when I finally have the time to respond is often the part when I no longer have the capacity to respond.

A wonderful friend once told me, “If you can't reply, just send me a hug emoji.”

I loved that.

And there have still been days when even that felt like one thing too many.

This image captures something I haven't been able to explain very well in words.

Some days, I feel as though I'm underwater looking toward the surface.

I can see where everyone else is. I know what I'm supposed to be doing. I know there are messages to answer, things to accomplish, people I want to show up for, and a life happening above the surface.

I'm trying to get there.

That's what I wish people could see.

When I disappear, cancel, fall behind, or don't respond, it can look from the outside like I've stopped trying.

I haven't stopped trying. Sometimes I'm already using everything I have just to stay afloat.

And when someone understands that—really understands it—the grace they give me means more than they probably know.

Next in Writing From the Couch

Part 3: This Isn't In My Head
What Living With Complex, Invisible Illness Actually Looks Like

[Part 4: Recluse Felt Safer Than Unreliable — What Chronic Illness Has Done to My Friendships—and Why I Sometimes Disappear]

[Part 5: I Found My Purpose. I'm Still Sick. — What Purpose, Faith, Work, and Chronic Illness Look Like When There Isn't a Neat Ending — Coming Soon]