“Loneliness is the human condition.”

Janet Fitch, White Oleander

If I had more time I’d write a section in the thesis on the loneliness of chronic illness, the very loud silence of tired, aching bodies, those days when you want someone to sit you down in a comfy chair and bring you tea and tell you it’ll all be okay, even though you both know it won’t be, someone to just clean your dishes, and fold your washing, and cook you dinner, and let you sleep. And sleep, and sleep.

But that would be too many days, and no-one wants to listen to another round of how you’re sore and sad, even those who love you. Even, perhaps especially, you. And what is there to say anyway? The words are large and heavy and complicated, and even if you could find the right ones, no-one can share your body’s anguish. So you get out of bed, and you clean your dishes, and you fold your washing, and you cook yourself dinner, and you don’t really sleep.

I’d forgotten how distressing and isolating constant nerve pain is. I would have been happy to have forgotten it forever.