BONUS: Love and Hate Letter

Want to listen instead? Less screen time! Audio found here.

One day last summer, I was stuck downtown with an onslaught of symptoms that pretty much debilitated me. I wasn’t sure I could make it home. It was too far to walk and the public bus was far too noisy and crowded for me that day. Between where I was and my home was my boyfriend’s apartment. We had only been dating about two months at the time. I wasn’t sure if it felt right to seek refuge at his place, but I made the decision, called him up, and proceeded to head to his place.

Writing has become a source of comfort for me. I realized this only on that day. As I felt like shit, collapsed on his couch, I asked to use a pen and some paper. Below is what I wrote.

I’m sharing this now to go along with the podcast interview series I’m doing on Dating and Relationships with PCS. The “love and hate letter” below really captured how insecure I feel at times in my relationships, due to the limiting nature of this disability, making me feel like I don’t belong. As much as it turned out to be a sort of love letter to my boyfriend, this writing was my way of trying to make him understand how I feel about myself in our relationship. It was also a way for me to work through these feelings and help me see that I do belong :)

I hope you enjoy.

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The pen I’m writing with says “Dubai,” carved into its wooden exterior. I’m clutching a pillow with a camel on it. The lights are dim. Laundry is hung to dry to my right, just beyond a small table placed at my side holding a snack prepared for me with care. “Fais comme chez toi” says the sweetest guy I know, after hugging me and kissing my forehead, right where the pain emits the most.

I had a busy day planned, lots of people to see, talk with, catch up with, be my best self with. It’s a perfect summer day, warm with a breeze, blue sky with fluffy white clouds, and yet relentlessly sunny. I had hoped to feel good, be functional, share fun experiences with others. Then come back to this sweetheart, maybe tired, but still a whole person.

Yet here I sit. Curled up. Clutching a camel on a pillow. Writing with a pen from a place I’d love to see. I’m in pain. Barely functional enough to speak. Having a hard time feeling anything good about myself.

His apartment is super small. But you don’t notice it because everything is so well set up, so well put together. Like he is. It’s all quite simple - there’s no clutter. Even though he has shelves upon shelves of books, interwoven he decorates with greetings cards he’s received, souvenirs from other countries and antiques he’s collected. It’s all very cute. Like he is. The clothes are drying on a rack because he wants to limit the electricity he uses. There’s a framed poster on the wall of a 24-hour philosophy event he helped found to make philosophy accessible to many different people. And the snacks still sit at my side as he offers to make me more. It’s all very considerate. Like he is.

And then there’s me. In the centre of this put together, cute and considerate environment. I’m penning this on paper, having to take breaks as even writing is starting to exhaust me. There’s a pressure in my head that makes my skull feel like a bike tire inner-tube, over-filled with air, with more slowly being pumped in. My muscles are weak. I can’t hold my head up. The effort it takes to move my limbs feels as though there are weights strapped to my ankles and wrists. My eyelids are drooping and my eyes have that fuzzy tired feeling. I get out of breath moving and even talking. Lights seem bright. Even the soft noise of popcorn popping on the stove makes the muscles in my face tense up.

And then I’m sad.

Sad that I had to bail on plans with my friends.

Sad that I’m not reliable.

And then I’m angry.

Angry that I spent too much time on the computer yesterday.

Angry I didn’t take more breaks.

Angry that I can’t seem to have the discipline to stop while I’m ahead.

And then I’m anxious.

Anxious thoughts race through my mind saying I’ll never get better. That I’ve caused another setback. That I’ll never feel good again.

And then I bully myself.

You’ll never be anything but broken.

You’ll never do anything important.

You’ll always be lesser than.

I was talking on the phone earlier today with a good friend of mine. This was the first time I told them about this sweet guy in my life. Aside from talking about all his wonderful attributes, I mentioned how I hadn’t really told a lot of people yet about this new boyfriend of mine. This has nothing to do with him. It just feels a bit surreal. Surprising that someone is ok with all of my stuff.

This friend of mine also manages mental health issues. “I’ve often asked my partner ‘are you sure??’” my friend said to me. Oh, how I relate to this… I often find myself holding back the urge to review with my new boyfriend everything that is wrong with me, apologize for my faults, then check to see if he’s still on board.  “But,” my friend continued, “there are people out there who just love us for who we are.”

There’s now popcorn beside me. He’s working on his own thing and when he does talk to me, he makes his voice even softer. I don’t like him seeing me like this – like a useless shell of a human being, in pain. But it doesn’t seem to change how he feels about me in the slightest.

He understands I’m in pain. He understands I can’t do much. He understands it’s not my fault. “Nobody likes to feel unwell,” he says. But what he doesn’t understand is this:

When I feel unwell, I may physically be in pain, but it’s all the emotions and thoughts triggered by that pain that makes feeling unwell torturous. I doomspiral into hating this. Hating my life. Hating myself. I feel as though I don’t belong anywhere with anyone. I can feel like I have no future, like I’m a bad person, like I have no energy or ability to do anything about it.

But…

I’ve felt like this many times before.

I’ve had these thoughts many times before.

And the surprising thing is, they have yet to stop me.

My boyfriend asks to use this Dubai pen for a moment. He smiles at me as I tease him, subtly wavering the pen in and out of his reach. I’m not a bad person, though I can be an ass sometimes.

His apartment is small and cute. Just like I am. The framed philosophy poster has an abstract image of a chicken and an egg that’s quirky and cool. Just like I am. Everything in here is lucky to be cared for by such a sweet person. Just like I am. And as much as this camel pillow has been lucky to be hugged by me for the last hour or so, there’s someone else here who deserves it more.

♡ Krystal