I’m stuck,
but I’m not.
I move.
I breathe.
I write.
Yet nothing truly shifts.
Thousands of thoughts crash
against the throbbing cathedral of my skull,
each one louder than the last,
a storm that never learns to pass.
My head spins in circles.
Words spill out
like inked blood, I can’t stop bleeding.
All I do is write.
I write to keep from vanishing,
I write to remember
that I once had laughter,
once had light behind my eyes.
It’s been months
since my reflection felt familiar,
since my smile wasn’t rehearsed,
since I laughed
and believed it belonged to me.
No one has noticed.
No one asks.
They see me,
but they don’t look.
They don’t see how I lie down
because sitting takes too much strength,
how I slather lotion on my skin
as if to hold myself together,
pretending it’s self-care,
when it’s really survival.
At night,
I whisper to the ceiling’s shadowed beams,
asking if it remembers
what happiness feels like.
It never answers.
It only watches.
Its silence older than prayer,
as I fade into stillness,
a ghost in my own story.
I am invisible.
A presence mistaken for air,
a sigh mistaken for silence.
The signs pass through me,
their lives loud and certain,
while I drown quietly
beneath the noise of my own mind.
And yet …
a part of me still writes.
Still believes
that words might one day
pull me from the wreckage.
That someone, somewhere,
will read my words,
and see me.
Oct 8, 2025
Oct 8, 2025 at 8:21 PM UTC
I’m stuck,
but I’m not.
I move.
I breathe.
I write.
Yet nothing truly shifts.
Thousands of thoughts crash
against the throbbing cathedral of my skull,
each one louder than the last,
a storm that never learns to pass.
My head spins in circles.
Words spill out
like inked blood, I can’t stop bleeding.
All I do is write.
I write to keep from vanishing,
I write to remember
that I once had laughter,
once had light behind my eyes.
It’s been months
since my reflection felt familiar,
since my smile wasn’t rehearsed,
since I laughed
and believed it belonged to me.
No one has noticed.
No one asks.
They see me,
but they don’t look.
They don’t see how I lie down
because sitting takes too much strength,
how I slather lotion on my skin
as if to hold myself together,
pretending it’s self-care,
when it’s really survival.
At night,
I whisper to the ceiling’s shadowed beams,
asking if it remembers
what happiness feels like.
It never answers.
It only watches.
Its silence older than prayer,
as I fade into stillness,
a ghost in my own story.
I am invisible.
A presence mistaken for air,
a sigh mistaken for silence.
The signs pass through me,
their lives loud and certain,
while I drown quietly
beneath the noise of my own mind.
And yet …
a part of me still writes.
Still believes
that words might one day
pull me from the wreckage.
That someone, somewhere,
will read my words,
and see me.
It's not easy having an autoimmune disorder. It changes your life entirely. You don't act or react as others do, but you never stop wishing that you could. You never stop wishing that for one second, you could have someone understand, someone see, the way it makes you feel, truly feel. That time never comes.
