I've always felt so alone here, in my body. Crying out in silence. No one could hear me when I spoke. No one understood the pain raging inside. No one understood how it struck out at my loved ones. No one one understood the grip of IC. The lack of intimacy fueled only by fear of pain. The fear of food fueled by fear. The fear of friendship because who wants a broken friend.
An innate self loathing, over something broken inside. Who understands that intimacy feels like an assault? That friendships crumble quickly when you can't hold up your end. That sleep is fleeting if ever obtained. That going to buy groceries can take a Herculean effort. That work is just not a possibility. That renting redbox is easier because you dont want to pay 12$ for dirty toilets.
That no matter what you do, who you are, where you go, IC is a harsh cruel and vicious predator. Lashing out, striking in the midst of good and bad. You know there is no one who will help you, so you read every medical study, praying someone will finally comprehend this misery.
Ever seeking for someone to care enough to help me. Wishing, praying begging doctors. Doctors who literally ignore you and dump you onto another doctor who will do the same. Repeatedly. The idea that I am worthless is nailed in deeper every time a doctor dismisses me.
Seeing outright lies on medical notes. For instance 20 years ago when I was desperate for sleep and doctor wrote "denies nighttime urination". The whole purpose of that visit was due to me peeing every 10 minutes and not being able to sleep.
It angers me. I wish I could line each of them up and make them experience this constant agony. I wish that they could empathize because they KNOW not because they think they know. I know that might sound horrible, but when you have just poured out how much agony you are in desperation and all they can do or will do is give a condescending pat and a lecture on learning to deal with the pain, it makes me uncaring.
