Living With Something That Won't Go Away

What’s strange about living with an incurable disease isn’t the disease.

It’s everyone else.

Nobody knows what to do with you.

Nobody knows how to treat you.

You look healthy, you sound healthy, you’re “good for a while”… so do they treat you the same?

Should they treat you differently?

They don’t know — and instead of just asking, they get uncomfortable.

How fucked up is that?

You’re the one with the punched clock.

You’re the one on borrowed time.

But somehow they’re the ones who feel awkward.

Look, I get it.

Illness scares people — especially the kind that doesn’t go away.

But some of y’all need to relax. I’m not a porcelain doll, I’m just tired.

The relationship changes because the person changes.

But instead of adapting, people try to reset it back to the old version of you.

They get offended when you don’t fit in their box anymore.

Here’s the truth:

I don’t have time to be the old version of myself.

I have even less time to manage anyone else’s feelings about it.

I’m not trying to be harsh.

I’m not trying to be rude.

I’m just done sugar-coating everything so you feel comfortable.

Illness rewires you.

You see the broken parts in your relationships with perfect clarity.

And suddenly you have no patience for those parts —

not because you’re mean,

but because they waste time and drain emotions you no longer have to spare.

Doctors tell you to reduce stress.

Turns out the best way to reduce stress is simple:

stop giving a shit about the bullshit.

Your wife’s angry because you forgot the milk?

Grab the keys. Go get the milk.

Why argue? Why raise your voice?

Life’s too short to fight about dairy.

These days, I’m done with commands.

I’m done with people barking orders at me.

You want to discuss? Perfect — I enjoy discourse.

But I don’t take commands anymore. Not from anyone.

And look — there have been upsides for me.

I won’t pretend there haven’t.

Before all this, I was ready to coast.

Ready to sit down way too young and say,

“I did what I set out to do. Where’s my porch and cup of coffee?”

I thought I had earned the right to slow down.

To drift a little.

To watch the world from the sidelines.

But when life shits on you hard, you get a choice:

You can be the toilet.

Or you can say, “Fuck that,”

and get off your ass.

That’s the real twist with illness —

it either breaks you down

or it wakes you up.

I chose to wake up.

So now I’m a new me — one who doesn’t care about bullshit anymore.

One who’s ready to actually live life, not tiptoe around it.

One who’s ready to work, to build, to pour into other people and watch them grow.

I want to make a mark, even a small one.

Something that leaves a ripple.

Something that makes people remember my name —

even if only for a little while,

because let’s be honest… it’ll be forgotten soon enough.

That’s just how life works.

But while I’m here?

I’m going to make damn sure I leave something worth remembering.

I’ve started seeing myself differently now.

I try to stitch pieces of me into other people —

little threads, little moments, little lessons —

and let them carry me for a bit.

Not in a selfish way.

More like patches.

I think of it like this:

everyone’s bleeding somewhere, even if they hide it well.

And if I can give you a small broken piece of me

that helps keep you whole,

then that’s worth something.

That’s my legacy.

Not statues.

Not songs.

Nobody’s writing my name in textbooks.

But maybe I leave the people around me

with a little more strength,

a little more clarity,

a little more courage

because of something I said or did.

If that tiny piece of me helps you along your path,

even for one moment,

then I was here.

And that’s enough.

And if I’m being really honest,

I feel like a smashed-up car in a salvage yard.

Maybe I can’t drive like I used to.

Maybe I don’t run the way I once did.

But there are still parts in here worth something.

A few pieces that might help someone else keep going.

So take them.

Let me give them to you.

Because who am I otherwise?

I’m not the whole machine anymore —

not the shiny new version people used to see.

I’m what’s left.

But what’s left is still useful.

Still valuable.

Still capable of helping someone else down the road.

So part me out.

I’m happier that way.

If pieces of me can help you stay whole,

then that’s the best use for whatever time I’ve got left.

Fact check me.