Each fall, for the last few years, I’ve lived on edge, hoping a major wildfire doesn’t strike where I live and force me to choose between the lesser of two evils–stay and risk dying in my home or evacuate and risk making myself sicker and getting injured.
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When chronic illness becomes a new kind of normal, it also becomes a cruel existence, one in which pain is a constant torture and exhaustion is as frequent as breathing.
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Naming the disease after a scientist, or doctor, or even a damn town (as was done for Lyme disease) would be better than calling it chronic fatigue syndrome.
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I eventually snap out of it and remember: Oh hey, there’s another person here, someone helping me and we’re supposed to be working together. But I don’t want to work together, not on things I’ve done alone my entire life …
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Do you know that song The Sound of Silence? I’m sure you do, maybe it’s even your favorite song. I’ll be honest, though, I’m not much of a Simon & Garfunkel fan. Somehow, however, the song has been stuck in my head lately, probably because the lyrics are so relevant to my current situation, albeit in a more literal sense
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