The Things We Only Say to Each Other

Chronic Illness, Emotional Teaspoons, and the Art of Not Throat-Punching Your Loved Ones.

Living with a chronic illness is a bit like being stuck in a never-ending escape room. Except you don’t get clues, no one remembers you’re in there, and occasionally someone outside the door yells, “Have you tried thinking positively?” as if that will help your joints stay in place.

For those of us who live it, day in, day out—it’s not just the pain, the exhaustion, the fragility of a body that doesn’t behave. It’s people. The hardest part of being chronically ill is often not the illness. It’s navigating relationships with people who have the emotional range of a teaspoon and the empathy of a slightly irritated printer.

Talk About It? You’re Fixated. Say Nothing? You’re Cured.

This is the paradox. If you talk honestly—openly—about what you're going through, you’re accused of fixating on your illness. Like being honest about the state of your life is somehow rude.

But if you keep quiet? People assume you’ve made a miraculous recovery. “You seemed fine yesterday!” they say, as if you’ve just completed a level in a video game and unlocked the Fully Healed achievement.

And then one day, you break. Not because you're weak, but because you've been carrying it all. You’ve smiled through it, made jokes, downplayed the pain so other people wouldn’t feel uncomfortable—and suddenly, you can’t anymore.

Cue the sideways glances. The passive-aggressive concern. The dreaded:

“Are you okay?”Translation: You’re making me feel weird. Please go back to pretending.

The Apology You Shouldn’t Have to Give

It’s funny, isn’t it? (Not ha-ha funny—more “laughter with a side of crying in the bath” funny.)

You spend days, weeks, even months treading lightly. Managing your pain and everyone else’s reactions to it. Then something tiny happens—someone says the wrong thing at the wrong time, or ignores the thousandth red flag—and you snap. Not violently. Not cruelly. Just honestly.

And you end up apologising.

Not them.Not the person who’s been emotionally MIA since your diagnosis.Not the friend who offers support like they’re handing out breath mints: occasionally and only when someone’s watching.

No, it’s you, the one holding together a body that constantly betrays you, saying:

“Sorry I was a bit short. I’m just tired.”Tired? You’re exhausted. On a molecular level. But god forbid you be difficult about it.

The Rage of the Emotionally Underfed

Sometimes you want to scream. Sometimes you want to throat-punch your nearest and dearest—not because you don’t love them, but because watching them flounder emotionally when faced with your reality is like watching someone try to hug a cactus.

They mean well. They do. But meaning well doesn’t get your meds on time, or help when you’re crying on the bathroom floor because your legs gave out again, or you dropped your tea and now the smell of chamomile makes you want to scream.

You don’t need a cheerleader. You need a co-pilot.Someone to say, “You don’t have to carry this alone.”Instead, you get platitudes.

“Just let me know if you need anything!”Yeah, I’ll get right on that between the panic attacks and the two-hour wait for the pharmacy to admit my prescription exists.

The Chronic Illness Club

And then—miraculously—you find your people.

They don’t flinch when you say you cried because you couldn’t put your socks on.They don’t say “you look well” as if it’s a compliment.They don’t respond to your breakdown with silence, awkwardness, or a carefully worded message that feels like a performance review.

They just nod.Or say, “Same.”

There is such comfort in that. A club no one wants to join, but once you’re in, you cling to it like a lifeline. These are the people who understand that “I’m fine” often means “I’m breaking, but I can’t afford to fall apart right now.”

In this club:

• “Tired” means full-body shutdown.

• “Bad day” means I nearly called an ambulance but couldn’t find the energy.

• “Better” means I only cried twice today and managed to eat something.

No judgement. No pity. Just truth.

Things We Only Say to Each Other

We joke, darkly. We vent, shamelessly. And we say the things we can’t say outside this circle. Things like:

• “If one more person tells me to drink more water, I’m going to drown them in it.”

• “I’m not brave—I’m just cornered.”

• “No, I don’t want to try essential oils. I want a functioning spine.”

And sometimes, the quiet truths:

• “I’m scared.”

• “I’m lonely.”

• “I miss who I was before my body became a battlefield.”

Because the truth is, it’s not about being negative. It’s about being real. And most people can’t handle real. But we can. We do. Every damn day.

So Here’s to Us

To everyone who has ever apologised for their own pain.To everyone who’s ever had to justify their fatigue.To everyone who’s ever been told “but you don’t look sick.”

You are not too much. You are not broken. You are not dramatic.

You’re surviving a world that was not built for bodies like yours. And you’re doing it with humour, grace, and the occasional urge to throw a herbal tea across the room.

And if no one else says it—I will:

You’re doing a bloody incredible job.

Now lie down, drink some water (or wine—no judgement), and remind yourself that being chronically ill is not a character flaw. It’s just a reality. And you’re allowed to be angry, messy, tired, and brilliant all at once.