Sickland is a featureless place.
It smells of alcohol and bed sheets and is lonely.
Sickland is a place I have to go all alone. When I try to come out for a visit, things don’t generally go too well. Despite my best attempts, I am often misunderstood, irritating or simply irrelevant.
I don’t know why this is.
I think it is just a fact of life for those of us who go to Sickland often.
Our families and friends have to protect themselves from the ups and downs of living without us. Or maybe it is just too much trouble, I don’t know.
All I know is that it is best I remain quiet and cocooned. If I want to be held or hugged, I have to ask for it, repeatedly. Comforting does not come easily in my family. Nor is it easy for me to ask.
I feel like an irritating, small pet that sits on your couch and poops on your carpet but never really does much of anything.
I struggle to ask for what I need and then feel shunned when I am cut out of the daily life of the family.
Life happens around me. I am not a part of it.
It is difficult.
I hate it.
I hate Sickland.
I would rather fake being well than live imprisoned here in Sickland. I suppose that is why I often push way too hard and end up here. The thought of being confined and alone is so utterly repellent to me that I do almost anything to avoid it.
But sometimes there is no choice.
I don’t get a say in the matter.
That’s why they call it chronic illness. It never leaves.
The unwelcome guest(s) in my body sleep at times but never vacate the premises.
These unwanted tenants are always there, waiting to whisk me away to places I know but loathe: hospitals, doctor’s offices, beds and twilight sleep; days and nights confined to my house.
Sickland.
I hate you.