Claudia is Gone
I now spend hours sitting on my chair next to the window, watching the world go by outside. Sometimes I open the window and the cold autumn air will come wafting in. I take a deep breath and close my eyes. Somehow, it doesn’t seem real to me anymore, that world. I feel detached from it. Isolated. I don’t even bother to keep track of the news. I don’t care anymore. I am done with this world. I am not part of it anymore.
And it hurts to realise that. It hurts to see how everything keeps on spinning regardless of whether you are part of it or not. People get on with their lives. They work, socialise and exercise. And all the while I am lying here on my bed, restrained, and wishing to be them.
Initially people at least seemed to care about my awful situation. Now they have stopped. They don’t call anymore or ask how I am. And why would they? The answer is always the same. Occasionally, someone will still drop by and briefly inquire how I am. Sometimes they even bring me some cookies, or fruit. But they never stay long and I can see the relief on their faces as they walk out of the door.
And no, I am not depressed. Despite all this I am still optimistic. I still fool myself into believing that there might be something that can be done about my condition. I am still somewhat hopeful. But I know that this hopefulness will not last forever. I have been imprisoned up here in my room for nearly a week now and it is driving me insane. I have not set foot outside my door. Most days I haven’t even bothered to get dressed. It involves too much effort now. I am simply too weak.
So instead, I sit here all day, at my window, on my chair, listening to music, staring at the people outside. I don’t feel human anymore. Everything that once gave purpose to my existence has been ripped away and eliminated. My studies here in Boston are over. My social life is inexistent. I am hardly capable of leaving the house. I can’t even go food shopping and the walk to my letterbox now seems like a five kilometre hike up some steep mountain to me.
When I arrived in Boston, my skin had been a deep, healthy brown. Now I am pale. I am more than pale. My skin looks ashen, ghost-like almost. And you can see the veins underneath my transparent skin. They make their way along my amrs and legs like little blue rivers; rivers of disease. They make me sick. With every breath I take, those little veins provide my cells with more sickness. They infest my body and make it ill, but at the same time they keep me alive. How ironic.
And then I look at the time. It’s only one o’clock. Time seems to stand still while I sit here at the window. Seconds now seem like minutes and minutes like hours. I wait for the time to pass. Sometimes I sit staring at the hands of my watch, waiting for them to move again. And every time they move I am relieved: one less second of misery, one less minute of fear, and one less hour of illness. I now look forward to night time. I look forward to being able to sleep. At least while I sleep I am able to forget all this for a few hours.
And it’s the same, day after day. I wait for the days to pass but don’t even know why. What am I waiting for? For things to get better? What if they get worse? What if they stagnate? What if I am trapped in this state forever? What if? And I know I said I would not think too much about all the what ifs but I cannot help it. There are a myriad of questions on my mind right now.
Surprisingly I am not even all that scared anymore. I have stopped caring now. I have stopped caring about all the doctors, about all the names of diseases and about my studies. I am indifferent now. I am inhuman.
Still, I fear that I will not come out of this unscathed. Will I ever be the same again? Will I ever be me again? Maybe this is a new me. A flawed me. A me that has to first be reinvented. And I’m not sure if I like the idea of being forced to reinvent myself. I’m not sure if I like being forced to change. I liked the way I was. I liked the old me.
Up to now I was a healthy, active individual. I would spend many hours each week working out, would study hard and enjoy spending time in the outdoors. I was successful and that gave me an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. It gave purpose to my life. Now all of that is gone. No more exercise. No more studying. No more running. No more spending time outside. No more jogging. I can’t even walk anymore. As far as I am concerned I am a cripple now both mentally and physically.
A phone conversation is now almost as exhausting to me as a four hour exam. After about 30 minutes I will be too weak to even talk. My vision will go cloudy, my face will start tingling and I will feel another wave of weakness surge through my body.
Even writing is incredibly strenuous. After a few minutes, the thoughts just don’t flow anymore. They don’t pour out of my head like they used to anymore. Rather, they falter, halt and stumble. Sometimes they don’t make any sense. I don’t make any sense.
And my fingers keep on hitting the wrong keys. After a few paragraphs I have to give myself a break. I have to rest on my bed for a while, stretch out my fingers and try to recover. My fingers get stiff from all the tipping. I often have to pause and wiggle them about. But I will not give this up. This is the last little piece of humanity and joy that I am left with. If you take this from me you might as well take everything.
Sometimes I still try to do some research on the internet. I try to find people with similar symptoms. I try to find fellow sufferers. There seem to be none. Is there no one in this whole wide world who understands what I am going through? Is there none who shares my pain? No one?
I am now an expert on the topic of neurological conditions, autoimmune diseases and other diseases of the central nervous system. I have read it all and have spent hours searching for something that completely matches all of my symptoms. I cannot. There does not seem to be an explanation for what is wrong with me.
And then, sometimes, I start contemplating other possibilities. I start reading up on psychiatric conditions. I try to understand the reasoning behind somatisation; try to comprehend terms such as psychosomatic, conversion disorder and hypochondriasis. I try to evaluate if I fit any of the criteria. I try to find similarities between my story and those cases described on the internet. I try to find incidences of similar severity, of similar fatigue and devastation. But I have yet to find a story that comes anywhere close to my own.
Sometimes I even contemplate admitting myself to mental institution. Sometimes I fell as though that might be a more fitting place for someone like myself. But then I try to be rational again. I know myself. I know what depression feels like. I know that this is not depression. I know that this is not purely due to stress. I know that this is something else. I know, but no one seems to believe me anymore. They have all turned their backs on me. They can’t find anything wrong and, in order to cover up their failure, they dismiss me as emotionally impaired. I am not.
And if I hear anyone ever tell me that this is all in my head again I will single-handedly go and strangle that person to death. And if I hear another person tell me to go out and have fun, to socialise and enjoy life, I will challenge them to walk in my shoes for just an hour. I doubt they’d feel much like socialising and having fun then. I doubt that they’d feel like doing anything much at all.
Writing is very difficult for me today. I cannot concentrate. I cannot think. I will give myself a break now.
And it hurts to realise that. It hurts to see how everything keeps on spinning regardless of whether you are part of it or not. People get on with their lives. They work, socialise and exercise. And all the while I am lying here on my bed, restrained, and wishing to be them.
Initially people at least seemed to care about my awful situation. Now they have stopped. They don’t call anymore or ask how I am. And why would they? The answer is always the same. Occasionally, someone will still drop by and briefly inquire how I am. Sometimes they even bring me some cookies, or fruit. But they never stay long and I can see the relief on their faces as they walk out of the door.
And no, I am not depressed. Despite all this I am still optimistic. I still fool myself into believing that there might be something that can be done about my condition. I am still somewhat hopeful. But I know that this hopefulness will not last forever. I have been imprisoned up here in my room for nearly a week now and it is driving me insane. I have not set foot outside my door. Most days I haven’t even bothered to get dressed. It involves too much effort now. I am simply too weak.
So instead, I sit here all day, at my window, on my chair, listening to music, staring at the people outside. I don’t feel human anymore. Everything that once gave purpose to my existence has been ripped away and eliminated. My studies here in Boston are over. My social life is inexistent. I am hardly capable of leaving the house. I can’t even go food shopping and the walk to my letterbox now seems like a five kilometre hike up some steep mountain to me.
When I arrived in Boston, my skin had been a deep, healthy brown. Now I am pale. I am more than pale. My skin looks ashen, ghost-like almost. And you can see the veins underneath my transparent skin. They make their way along my amrs and legs like little blue rivers; rivers of disease. They make me sick. With every breath I take, those little veins provide my cells with more sickness. They infest my body and make it ill, but at the same time they keep me alive. How ironic.
And then I look at the time. It’s only one o’clock. Time seems to stand still while I sit here at the window. Seconds now seem like minutes and minutes like hours. I wait for the time to pass. Sometimes I sit staring at the hands of my watch, waiting for them to move again. And every time they move I am relieved: one less second of misery, one less minute of fear, and one less hour of illness. I now look forward to night time. I look forward to being able to sleep. At least while I sleep I am able to forget all this for a few hours.
And it’s the same, day after day. I wait for the days to pass but don’t even know why. What am I waiting for? For things to get better? What if they get worse? What if they stagnate? What if I am trapped in this state forever? What if? And I know I said I would not think too much about all the what ifs but I cannot help it. There are a myriad of questions on my mind right now.
Surprisingly I am not even all that scared anymore. I have stopped caring now. I have stopped caring about all the doctors, about all the names of diseases and about my studies. I am indifferent now. I am inhuman.
Still, I fear that I will not come out of this unscathed. Will I ever be the same again? Will I ever be me again? Maybe this is a new me. A flawed me. A me that has to first be reinvented. And I’m not sure if I like the idea of being forced to reinvent myself. I’m not sure if I like being forced to change. I liked the way I was. I liked the old me.
Up to now I was a healthy, active individual. I would spend many hours each week working out, would study hard and enjoy spending time in the outdoors. I was successful and that gave me an overwhelming sense of satisfaction. It gave purpose to my life. Now all of that is gone. No more exercise. No more studying. No more running. No more spending time outside. No more jogging. I can’t even walk anymore. As far as I am concerned I am a cripple now both mentally and physically.
A phone conversation is now almost as exhausting to me as a four hour exam. After about 30 minutes I will be too weak to even talk. My vision will go cloudy, my face will start tingling and I will feel another wave of weakness surge through my body.
Even writing is incredibly strenuous. After a few minutes, the thoughts just don’t flow anymore. They don’t pour out of my head like they used to anymore. Rather, they falter, halt and stumble. Sometimes they don’t make any sense. I don’t make any sense.
And my fingers keep on hitting the wrong keys. After a few paragraphs I have to give myself a break. I have to rest on my bed for a while, stretch out my fingers and try to recover. My fingers get stiff from all the tipping. I often have to pause and wiggle them about. But I will not give this up. This is the last little piece of humanity and joy that I am left with. If you take this from me you might as well take everything.
Sometimes I still try to do some research on the internet. I try to find people with similar symptoms. I try to find fellow sufferers. There seem to be none. Is there no one in this whole wide world who understands what I am going through? Is there none who shares my pain? No one?
I am now an expert on the topic of neurological conditions, autoimmune diseases and other diseases of the central nervous system. I have read it all and have spent hours searching for something that completely matches all of my symptoms. I cannot. There does not seem to be an explanation for what is wrong with me.
And then, sometimes, I start contemplating other possibilities. I start reading up on psychiatric conditions. I try to understand the reasoning behind somatisation; try to comprehend terms such as psychosomatic, conversion disorder and hypochondriasis. I try to evaluate if I fit any of the criteria. I try to find similarities between my story and those cases described on the internet. I try to find incidences of similar severity, of similar fatigue and devastation. But I have yet to find a story that comes anywhere close to my own.
Sometimes I even contemplate admitting myself to mental institution. Sometimes I fell as though that might be a more fitting place for someone like myself. But then I try to be rational again. I know myself. I know what depression feels like. I know that this is not depression. I know that this is not purely due to stress. I know that this is something else. I know, but no one seems to believe me anymore. They have all turned their backs on me. They can’t find anything wrong and, in order to cover up their failure, they dismiss me as emotionally impaired. I am not.
And if I hear anyone ever tell me that this is all in my head again I will single-handedly go and strangle that person to death. And if I hear another person tell me to go out and have fun, to socialise and enjoy life, I will challenge them to walk in my shoes for just an hour. I doubt they’d feel much like socialising and having fun then. I doubt that they’d feel like doing anything much at all.
Writing is very difficult for me today. I cannot concentrate. I cannot think. I will give myself a break now.