If Only You Could See Me...

This morning I woke up with what felt like a dislocated jaw. Nothing is actually wrong with it, just swelling.

I haven’t banged it or caught it on anything. It’s simply Fibro. Just another invisible flare, appearing out of nowhere.

It’s hard to swallow, if you’ll pardon the pun, these phantom pains. Because I don’t look disabled. In fact, at 55, I think I look quite well.

Well enough, apparently, for an elderly lady to look completely astonished when we parked in a disabled spot.
Yes, I have a blue badge.

She looked confused as I stepped out, stick in hand, smiling politely and wishing her a good day.

Later, after asking my husband to move the car, he calmly explained. Walking is difficult. That’s when I’m in pain, I need the car close. That this isn’t convenience, it’s necessity.

No raised voices. No confrontation. Just a quiet truth.

Because that’s what we do.
We keep smiling.

Through uneven paths. Through busy streets. Through shops that constantly move things around like an obstacle course we never signed up for.

And it’s not just me.

Autism and ADHD bring their own weight, stress, anxiety, and overwhelm.
But still… we keep smiling.

Until we get home.

The door closes.
Shoes come off.
And the smile disappears.

Tears fall.
Hands swell.
Rheumatoid arthritis burns.
POTS stays invisible.

And suddenly, there’s no strength left to pretend.

We cry in private.
We smile in public.

And still, they don’t see us.

Because pain like this doesn’t show.
There are no neat, visible signs. No obvious proof.

But if there were…

My body would be covered in it.
Lines. Scars.
Bruises blooming beneath the skin, deep purples, angry reds, black at the centre, fading slowly into yellow.

Hands twisted.
Fingers refusing.
Cups slipping.
Plates smashing.

A body fighting itself… quietly.

But they don’t see that.

They see what isn’t there.
And they judge it.

“Why do you need a walking stick?”

I hear it. I feel it.
And then, just like that, I drift,

Into the brain fog.

For a moment, even forgetting why I hurt.

And with that same well-practised public smile, I say softly:

“If only you could see me.”

So don’t judge.

Because that smile you see?
It might be holding back a storm of pain you’ll never understand.

Love and Light,
Amanda