The smallest of asks

I'm grumpy.

To be fair, others have made this point better. It was never a game for them. From the outset, they lived in fear, under a house arrest with no end date.

My journey started just three and a half months ago - only dipping my toes in the deep waters of others' pain. But still.

I'm not who I was in early April. It's a chronic illness now, and that's not just a thing that affects you. It shapes you.

My body doesn't work properly. Not the end of the world, maybe: that shouldn’t change who I am. But my brain doesn't work either. I mean, it works enough - I can do my job from home and order groceries and pay the bills - but the sparkle, the part of my mind that embraces the batshit and the joyful and the fun, is hard to summon. I sit on the couch each day, missing what feels lost. I worry about the pain in the left of my chest. I wonder if that's why it's still a drag to dry myself when I get out of the shower.

Sure. Fine. I'm not dying. And maybe I'll get fully better one day; look back on this time and roll my eyes at my bleak words.

But for now, I'm scared. If I get it again, I could be absolutely fucked. And it's not just me: there's an army of us, many of them vastly worse off than I am.

More or less, I have what I need. My house is warm and there's food in the cupboard. My work cares about me. So do my friends. But there is one more thing I need, desperately. It's for you to refuse to believe that this is inevitable, that you can't change it, that you might as well not bother.

I need you to wear a mask. That's all.

I just want you to give me a choice and a chance.

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