This blog was posted to my Substack on October 3, 2026. The original post can be viewed here.
I was getting ready for bed last night, and felt incredibly aware of my body and my senses. I could feel the greasiness of my skin and hair, itchy ankles from mosquito bites, a nose raw from allergies, a throbbing headache, and more (and more). The buzz of too many pains and discomforts overwhelmed my system.
I’ve been slowly pulling myself out of a very intense depressive episode recently, and keeping up with ADLs (Activities of Daily Living—clinical jargon for ‘shit you have to do to keep your life going’) has been hard. I’ve gotten used to not feeling particularly clean, since the energy for a bath has been hard to come by.
As I felt the overstimulation, I pulled out my phone to jot down a poem. Writing is one of the ways I make sense of what I’m thinking and feeling when my brain feels like it’s too disorganized or overwhelmed. I expected to feel disgusted, as I reflected. But as deep as I gazed inward, I couldn’t find disgust, which surprised me.
Here’s the draft of the poem I wrote, and what I found instead.
I was going to write about disgust, but I don’t feel it. Not the way I thought I would. Not at my body. Weary is a word for the story books, but sick is a synonym for vomit. It’s not pretty. It smells off. But here I am without the energy to do everything. I have to choose. And sometimes I don’t choose a bath, a meal, clean sheets, or brushed teeth. I cough up the word Just, as in, “why don’t you Just…” and I flush it down the toilet with the sick. I ate banana bread with milk for dinner, because it took less work. And I sat on the couch until my eyelids stuck from staring at nothing. I should have stretched. Should have Just washed the grease from my hair, instead of combing it with my hands and tying it back up. I should have drunk more water, and nuked a Stouffers spaghetti, and wiped away the bacteria colony making a home in my arm pits. My body shouldn’t have gone on strike against the aluminum, and I should’ve toughed out the itching, and Just used the deodorant. I should have been back to the gynecologist by now, about the pain, and the cysts playing hide and seek on my labia. I should’ve been to the lab already, to get my blood drawn for the anemia tests, But I needed to get cash to the roofers, and go to therapy. And then the migraine that has taken up permanent residence in my skull, saw the weather report, and started running wild. I should’ve stopped watching TV, then. I should’ve downed a Body Armor. I should’ve Just taken Nurtec, and slept the afternoon away. But I was too busy not-hating myself. I was too busy forgiving myself. I was too busy Just doing what I could. I was too busy loving myself to be disgusted.
I’m not sure what the title should be. Some poems have a title right away, and others, I have to sit with, and wait for them to tell me. It’ll come, I’m sure.
But even though it’s unfinished and vulnerable, it felt important to share this one. There’s so much about the body that we shame and sequester away from public eye, because we think it’s disgusting, or shameful to discuss. We acknowledge illness, but we’re very rarely open about the details of what it really feels like. The details of what it means to live in a body always seem to be too taboo to say out loud.
And, of course, there’s the word ‘just,’ and all that it implies. I started my career working with survivors of sexual assault and intimate partner violence. It that work, the question “why doesn’t she just leave?” was one I had a thousand answers for. Since then, I’ve come to bristle at the word ‘just.’
As someone dealing with invisible disabilities, chronic illness, mental illness, and chronic pain, I’m well accustomed to people assuming that the challenges I face just require some small adjustment, attitude change, or new tool, in order to be solved. I can’t count how many times I’ve been asked “Have you tried _____?” I still remember the moment, years ago, when a dental hygienist told me “perfect dental hygiene just takes 5 minutes a day.” I’ve received countless lectures from medical professionals trying to convince me that the dietary changes they’re recommending aren’t drastic ones, just simple lifestyle shifts that couldn’t trigger eating disorder relapse.
Everything is just a tiny, easy change, if you ask the person who wants you to make it. But they never seem to acknowledge how it feels to be given so many tiny changes to enact all at once. Or even to have so many tiny habits I’m supposed to keep up with.
Just floss your teeth daily sounds easy, but it’s not alone. I also have to just brush my teeth twice a day, and just take my scheduled meds three times a day, and just remember to take my PRN meds when I start to experience symptoms, so they don’t fester, and just bathe every other day, and just remember to use the antibiotic wash and cream to prevent HS outbreaks. I also just have to prepare and eat meals three times a day, and remember to eat snacks. I just have to drink 2-3 times the amount of fluids the average person does, so I can manage my POTS symptoms. I just need to avoid foods high in histamine. I just need to increase my fiber intake. I just need to avoid FODMAPs in my food. I just need to avoid eating soy. I just need to eat many small meals in a day instead of a few big ones. I just need to make sure the laundry is done enough that I have clean clothes, and just need to do the dishes often enough that they don’t pile up. I just need to go to the chiropractor twice a week and PT once a week to keep my muscle and joint pain under control. I just need to do my PT exercises every day. I just need to go to therapy several times a week. And so much more. All while my energy is extremely depleted. All while my executive functioning capacity is limited.
I’m just exhausted. I’m just tired of hearing that I ‘just’ need to do one small thing. If you understand, I’m sending care and love your way.
I made this collage recently. I feel like it really captures the busy, overwhelmed vibes.
