International Disability expert, Joni Eareckson Tada, explained it well when she told someone living with debilitating fatigue, “People have such high expectations of folks like you [with invisible disabilities], like, ‘come on, get your act together.’ but they have such low expectations of folks like me in wheelchairs, as though it’s expected that we can’t do much”.
I am a fan of the Invisible Illness campaign. It is giving a voice to those who have long suffered in silence. Many of us have hidden in the shadows, too afraid of judgement or ridicule. We sit alone with our thoughts, our fears, and the questions: What if no one believes me? What if they think I’m simply making excuses? Do I risk others trying to discredit my suffering? What if people view me as weak? What if they never accept that my limitations are legitimate?
And yet to have the power to be invisible, truly invisible, would be a mercy.
What if I vanished every time my internal world battled against my ability to be a peaceful and life-giving presence. Think of it. My anxiety would seek to control only my little world. I alone would receive the verbal barrage from my irrational fears. The depression could swallow no other victim. The mania, harnessing pain filled words destined to drive others from my presence, would never be heard... even if shouted aloud from within the madness.
Yes, to be invisible would be a mercy. There would be less regret. Fewer apologies. Greater emotional safety for family members and close friends. Less shame. Less Guilt.
It is life draining when my invisible illness becomes anything but invisible. I feel naked. Vulnerable. And unbearably seen. I wish only to hide. To be invisible.
I grow weary of the endless apologies. With unceasing vigor they reverberate in my mind. I am so sorry. Will you forgive me? I know I behaved badly. It is not about you. It is about me. It is not okay. I love you so much.
I hate anxiety. I hate fear. I hate depression. I hate mania. I hate it all.
And yet I must love myself as God loves me.
And I must see myself as one struggling, not as one defined by the struggle.
I have an invisible illness. I paint black strokes over the spectrum of beautiful colors that light the normally functioning world. I race impulsively through thoughts that misdirect my steps. Simple tasks on a to-do list cause my heart to pound and chest to tighten. Yes, I walk hand and hand with these uninvited guests, and I limp.
You cannot change what you do not first accept. And I am on a journey toward acceptance. If I can accept their internal presence, I can live within the tension of the current struggle, and the victory that is mine in Christ.
I am not a victim. I am a child of God.
And the One who began His good work in me is still writing my sacred story.
