Conversations We Only Have With Ourselves

Published 21 July 2026

By Antonia @ Unremarkable Me

The Customer Service Voice vs the Goblin in the Back Office

Let’s be honest.

Living with chronic illness is less “inspirational warrior rising triumphantly at dawn” and more “underpaid crisis manager who hasn’t slept since Tuesday and would quite like to speak to the manufacturer.”

There is a peculiar myth that you either look sick or you do not. That illness is theatrical. Pale. Dramatic. Obvious.

The reality is far stranger.

You walk around like a human optical illusion, smiling like a functioning adult while internally screaming as though someone left you on read and then sat directly on your pancreas.

There is the version of you the world sees.

Polite. Measured. Hydrated.

Nodding through the pain while calculating how long you can remain upright before gravity decides to take you personally.

And then there is the real you.

Counting spoons.

Timing medication as though you are defusing a bomb.

Negotiating with your autonomic nervous system like it is a disgruntled employee who has already contacted its union.

Somewhere between those two versions, the inner monologue begins.

Not out loud, of course.

Out loud would make people uncomfortable. And if there is one thing a chronically ill person fears more than dislocating a rib while sneezing, it is being socially awkward at brunch.

So, this is for the thoughts you whisper when no one is listening.

The truths you swallow so everyone else can comfortably digest the illusion of “fine.”

Let’s open the back office.

Part I: The Split Self

Customer service voice vs emotional goblin

Monday, 7:48am

Edge of the bed

What I say aloud:

“Just give me a second to wake up.”

What I mean:

I have been awake since 6:10 playing Which Limb Will Betray Me Today?

It is a competitive field.

Monday, 9:15am

Toothbrush suspended mid-air

What I say aloud:

“Mornings are the worst, aren’t they?”

What I mean:

If this toothbrush had a sword, I would knight it for surviving the tremor battle currently happening in my hand.

Tuesday, 11:03am

Text message unsent

What I type:

“Hey! Migraine. Raincheck?”

What I mean:

I have been horizontal for three hours, crying into a lukewarm wheat bag and calculating whether standing up is worth the risk of fainting in front of the dog.

Again.

Tuesday, 6:42pm

Dinner-table diplomacy

What I say aloud:

“Just a bit stiff today.”

What I mean:

My digestive system is playing roulette, my ribs have declared independence, and I am trying not to make a facial expression that frightens small children.

Wednesday, 2:14am

Ceiling-staring contest

What I say aloud:

Nothing.

What I mean:

How am I both exhausted and unable to sleep?

Who coded this body, and why were they allowed anywhere near the production line?

Wednesday, 8:22am

GP appointment voice activated

What I say aloud:

“It is difficult to explain. The pain isn’t constant. It is just… always there.”

What I mean:

Please do not suggest I drink more water.

I have spreadsheets.

I am the hydration department.

I pee like a sea otter.

Diagnostic overshadowing is real. It happens when an existing diagnosis becomes the explanation for everything, allowing new symptoms to be overlooked or dismissed.

If you are navigating that particular maze, PoTS UK offers information and guidance that may help you advocate for yourself within NHS care.

Thursday, 4:50pm

Mirror pep talk

What I say aloud:

“You are doing okay. You’ve got this.”

What I mean:

You magnificent, rage-fuelled goblin.

You are doing your best, and everything is only mildly unravelling.

Friday, 5:37pm

Bathroom-floor residency

What I say aloud:

Nothing.

Just breathing.

What I mean:

This is fine.

The tiles understand me.

They never ask whether I have tried yoga.

Saturday, 12:03pm

Friend on speaker

What I say aloud:

“I miss you too. We should meet up soon.”

What I mean:

The next time I cancel, it will not be because I do not care.

It will be because this body treats energy like a limited-edition release that sold out in 2019.

If this balancing act feels painfully familiar, you are not alone. Ehlers-Danlos Support UK provides information, practical resources and community support for people living with Ehlers-Danlos syndromes and related conditions.

Part II: The Reckoning

It is just me arguing with myself while attempting to locate the heat pad and what remains of my dignity.

Survivor Me:

“Take the medication.”

Soft Me:

“But it makes me feel like I am underwater inside a beanbag.”

Survivor Me:

“Get up.”

Soft Me:

“Gravity is clearly in a mood.”

Soft Me:

“I miss who I used to be.”

Survivor Me:

“She is still here. She is just buffering.”

Soft Me:

“What if I cannot do this forever?”

Survivor Me:

“We do not do forever. We do today. Maybe tomorrow. And if not, pizza.”

There is something quietly radical about that negotiation.

It is not heroic or cinematic.

It is simply persistent.

Final Entry

Sunday, 3:33am

Heartbeat in the dark

I lie there.

Both of me.

The one who aches.

The one who endures.

Both exhausted.

Both valid.

Still here.

Between them, a breath.

Not brave.

Not broken.

Just stubbornly, gloriously alive.

Closing Thoughts

If you have ever cancelled plans and rehearsed the apology before sending the message…

If you have calculated the risk of wearing trousers…

If you have smiled through a flare because explaining it felt heavier than enduring it…

You are not dramatic.

You are not weak.

You are carrying more than most people will ever see.

And in case no one has said it lately, that quiet persistence is not small.

If the weight of chronic illness begins to tip into anxiety or low mood, Mind and NHS Every Mind Matters offer accessible information, support and practical tools.

We are many.

We are tired.

We are occasionally feral.

And we are still bloody here.

Share Your Silence | Unremarkable Me

Do you have a survival monologue of your own?

Something you mutter to the kettle at three in the morning while bargaining with your spine?

Let Unremarkable Me be your megaphone for the quiet parts.

Because some of the most honest conversations we have are the ones no one else hears.

Love,

Unremarkable Me