“I’m Jaded”: Resenting Becoming Hardened by Illness

On this rainy and dreary evening in the middle of a tumultuous week, I am reflecting on who I was 4 years ago. I was about to graduate from high school, and things felt really magical. It was a time of new beginnings and some bittersweet endings, but ultimately, I had this sense that my life would be radically different, let’s say, four years from now.

I can say with confidence that my life is radically different now. I have a different purpose than I thought I would. I’m in a state that I had no real intentions of living in. I have new hobbies and interests.

I’m also jaded.

Jaded: made dull, apathetic, or cynical by experience or by having or seeing too much of something. (Thanks Merriam-Webster!).

Out of the past 4 years, I think there was 1 full year that my pain was managed. Beyond that, I haven’t been able to manage my disease for more than 5 months at a time. Let’s not forget navigating the world as an immunocompromised person in a pandemic. That’ll do it pretty quickly too.

I wrote this poem about a year ago. I was about to graduate from my undergrad, and I had intentionally been withholding treatment because it would make me immunocompromised. I had been in intense pain for over a year with very little reprieve. I was balancing two losses. Either I would continue to have chronic pain, or I would have to minimize contact with people who weren’t being safe (which was almost everyone). No one wants to make the choice to actively stay in pain, but it’s one that I made. This poem comes from a place of deep grief and loss but I think it gives a good introduction on what I mean when I say that I’ve become hardened.

I talk about becoming hard as if I am the sand before the glass 
I have been ground down by the sheer force of time 
put through the flames of ambiguous grief  
the fine grains between my fingertips vitrify but it is more painful to watch the sharp corners cut out the parts of me that I used to love 
gently bruised skin from wrung knuckles try to put what is left of me into an hourglass before I am transparent 
but my fingers were the first thing to leave me 
so I try to use my mouth to persuade any god that will listen 
but my mother tongue speaks only of the water that washed me down in the first place 
so the world brings me the rain that will wash me away instead 
I am no longer sharp 
I have seeped into the crevices of everyone I have ever loved
in hopes that they will make something beautiful out of me 

I used to pride myself on being soft. Not necessarily feminine, although some of the traits are ascribed that way. No, I used to be soft like the first touch of a warm mug on your lips, like the glow of a candle, like your favorite childhood stuffed animal. I used to pride myself on my optimism and happy nature. I was the friend to turned to when you wanted to be told that everything would be okay.

And in some ways I can still find that person in me.

But not as often.

The unfortunate part of becoming chronically ill a few weeks after you turn 18 is that you grow up really quickly. You have to learn to make decisions that other people don’t even think of having to make. You have to have a very specific awareness of your environment, of your body, of the weather. You have to keep extra meds on you and take them at a specific time, but only after you’ve eaten so you also have to keep a snack with you. You are forced to make hard decisions that are way above the capacity you ever thought you would need.

You adapt, and hopefully, you learn not to resent your adaptation.

(I’m still working on that)

So I’m no longer as soft. The first time I realized that, I felt a wave a grief that felt insurmountable. This piece of me was taken without my permission. There were plenty of things that I had already given up for my illness. Out of everything, it had to take my softness?

But it did. And no matter how hard I have tried, I haven’t been able to get it back. But maybe that’s also just part of growing up. The verdict’s still out on that one.

So instead, I’ve been learning to appreciate the hardened parts of myself. I am more outspoken on what I believe in now. I’ve realized that my happiness is a priority, and that I don’t need anything special to happen in order to treat myself. All of my soft edges that have become sharp are now tools for me to make change.

I am not one of the people that think you need to find good in your illness if you don’t want to. There might be opportunities, but you don’t owe anyone an optimistic explanation. Sometimes, it just sucks. There are many days where I can’t and don’t want to find the good, and that’s fine too.

Acknowledging that I am jaded has been freeing and unbelievably painful. I have the space and voice to acknowledge that I am tired of feeling this way. I have a platform and a support system that hears me. But acknowledging your anger and resentment is heavy. And I haven’t found a good way to deal with it.

So for now, I will continue to sit here on this rainy day. And be angry. And hardened. And jaded. And I’ll be okay with that for tonight.