Spilled Milk

A story that places you in the mind of someone struggling with an illness.

Spilled Milk

If I had cancer and you told me to go outside more often, put a smile on your face – would it cure my cancer?

Would it control the division of abnormal cells in my body? Smile. It’s that simple.

Well, if it’s that simple why are families losing loved ones? Why are children growing up without a parent? Did they not smile enough? Did their children not bring them enough joy?

Someone once told me to focus on the positive things in life, not the negative. Focus on your future, you cannot change your past.

~Friendly reminders~

I appreciate them, but I am not focusing on the negatives or my past. I cannot focus at all. My brain is a circuit board full of unwanted thoughts that I cannot turn off.

Somedays I can see the beauty in life. I smile when I watch the sunrise and other days I cannot stand the thought of getting out of bed because I’m afraid to see the sunset. Gloomy days arise when my illness takes over. I cry over spilled milk, I cry because my pen ran out of ink even though I have 26 more pens in the kitchen, I cry because my hair is staticky, my basket of dirty laundry tipped over and I only have one hanger left, but two sweaters to hang up. So, I go through all of my clothes and declutter because my life feels messy.

You call and I struggle to pick up because I don’t feel like talking.

You ask how it’s going – I respond, “it’s going” because that’s all it is. Time is changing, the Earth is rotating, the sun is going down just like my day, it is going.

You ask me “what’s wrong?”

I say “nothing” because I can’t keep up with my own thoughts long enough to form them into words to share with you. So, you cut the conversation short because you are frustrated with the lack of excitement in my voice.

We say goodbye.

And I start to cry all over again because I upset you and I am mad at myself for acting this way and I am sad that no one around me understands how hard it is to overcome an illness I don’t even understand myself. I don’t want to be a negative person.

You say happiness is a choice. You’re right, but my illness is not.

Maybe if I went outside more I wouldn’t be crying over spilled milk.

Depression and cancer are two different words. One carries a stigma, the other does not and although they are different words, they are both an illness.

& a smile won’t cure either one.