Chicks Dig Scars
This meme popped up on my memories feed and still love it! Had to share.
Journal Entry – August 26
I’m crawling out of a flare that felt like it would never end. The kind where your body throws new symptoms at you like darts, and you’re the target taped to the wall. Physically, mentally, emotionally…I’m wrung out. I keep fantasising about pressing pause on life so I can just rest, heal, maybe breathe…but the world doesn’t work that way. The bills don’t stop, the dog doesn’t stop, the body doesn’t stop misbehaving.
So I’ve doubled down on clean living. No preservatives, no processed crap, no “sugar-free” imposters, no flavouring unless I pick the damn leaf myself. Butter? Gone. Even my sugar-free, salt free, preservative free peanut butter got the boot. It’s brutal. But listen, if anyone thinks they’re prying my single-shot cappuccino out of my hands, they’d better come armed. I will bite. And not in a sexy Twilight way.
And then, there’s my boobs. Out of nowhere…enormous. Like, biblical-plague-level enormous. What the actual fuck? I know I’m in peri, been there a while, but does this mean I’ve moved up a level? I feel like a teenager in puberty but without the energy and way too much sass. Add “see gynaecologist” to the ever-growing medical to-do list, which is already topped with an MRI and a specialist visit that my pricey medical aid won’t cover. Health feels like a full-time job these days, except it’s the kind where the boss hates you and the pay is zero.
At least Bugsy knows. He’s been equal parts terrorist and angel…destroying toys, digging craters in the yard, chewing shoes…but the minute he senses tears, he’s there. He licked my face clean the other night when I was falling apart, and on Sunday, when my Mum had a little cry, he climbed onto her lap and did the same for her. The dog has better bedside manners than half the doctors I’ve seen over the last 20 years.
Then I made the mistake of looking through old photos. Me, thin, fit, glowing. Skinny AF. Sure, I was sick then too…scared of eating or drinking anything because I didn’t know if I could get rid of it again…but wow, those legs, that jawline, that flat little tummy and those teeny tiny perfect boobs. Now I see myself and it’s… different. Softer. Rounder. A little padded, a little tired, a bit wobbly. I do all the “right” things, but my body shrugs and does what it wants. It’s frustrating, yes, but also a little funny, like my metabolism decided to take early retirement without telling me, “Fuck you bitch, I’m outta here!”. Probably sipping cocktails in Mauritius without me. And those boobs. Did I mention the boobs?
Some days it feels like grief, losing versions of myself over and over again. Other days I can laugh about it. Today, I’m somewhere in between…sipping my cappuccino like it’s the Holy Grail (which it is), glaring at the mirror, and cuddling the dog who refuses to leave my side or stop chewing my leather boots.
Daily stats:
Coffee: 1 (so far)
Boobs: 2 (but enormous, deserve their own postcode)
Tears: 3
Items destroyed: 2 (RIP boot straps and foxy, the so called indestructible toy)
Garden holes: 5 (large enough to bury medical aid paperwork)
Medical aid tantrums: infinite
Hope: stubbornly hanging on
Are You Being Gaslit? 11 Signs It’s Not Just in Your Head
Plus: What Gaslighting Really Means, and Why It’s So Damn Hard to Spot
Gaslighting isn’t just lying. It’s psychological warfare dressed in charm and fake concern. It’s the friend who tells you you’re overreacting when you’re reacting exactly right. The partner who says you imagined the thing they absolutely said. The doctor who calls your symptoms imaginary while your body screams otherwise.
It starts small. A twisted comment here, a rewritten memory there. And suddenly, you’re doubting your gut, your grief, your own damn mind.
Let’s call it out.
What is gaslighting, really?
Gaslighting is a form of psychological manipulation in which someone causes you to doubt your perception, memory, or sanity, often to maintain control, avoid accountability, or protect their ego. The term comes from the 1938 play Gas Light, where a man dims the lights and convinces his wife she’s imagining it.
It can happen in romantic relationships, friendships, families, workplaces, doctors’ offices, anywhere power is abused and truth is twisted.
11 Signs You’re Being Gaslit
You feel like a shell of who you used to be
Dull. Confused. Exhausted. A little lost. And quietly wondering if you’re the problem.
You constantly second-guess yourself
You used to trust your gut. Now you rehearse your words before you speak and apologise even when you’re not sure why.
They rewrite the past
You remember what happened. They insist it didn’t. Or it happened differently. Or you’re misremembering. Or too sensitive.
They dismiss your feelings
“You’re being dramatic.” “Stop overreacting.” “You’re too emotional.” Translation: they don’t want to deal with what you feel.
They weaponise your insecurities
You opened up to them. Now they use it against you — subtly or not. In arguments. In jokes. In gasps and eyerolls and “I was just kidding.”
You feel like you’re walking on eggshells
You shrink before you speak. You manage their moods. You try to keep the peace by disappearing yourself.
They blame you for everything
If they’re angry, it’s because you provoked them. If they lied, it’s because you were too difficult. Nothing is ever their fault.
You’ve started to believe you’re “too much”
Too emotional. Too sensitive. Too needy. Too exhausting. That’s not an accident. It’s a strategy.
They isolate you from others
Sometimes subtly, sowing doubt about your friends or implying you’re better off alone. Sometimes, overtly punishing you for having support.
They flip the script during conflict
You bring up something that hurt you, and suddenly you’re defending your tone, your timing, your memory. The original issue vanishes.
You find yourself making excuses for them
To your friends. To your therapist. To yourself. “They’re just under a lot of stress.” “They had a rough childhood.” “They don’t mean it.”
“It’s Not Always Screaming and Slamming Doors”
Gaslighting doesn’t always look like abuse. Sometimes it’s soft. Quiet. Delivered with a gentle tone and a hand on your shoulder. “I’m just worried about you.” “You’ve been really sensitive lately.” It can come from people who say they love you, and sometimes, maybe, do.
That’s what makes it so dangerous. And so hard to name.
If any of this feels familiar, you’re not imagining it. That voice inside you, the one that’s been flickering under all the doubt? That’s still you. And you’re not crazy. You’re waking up.
No Is a Full Sentence: The Grit and Grace of Setting Boundaries
There’s a moment, maybe you know it, where someone asks too much, again, and instead of speaking, your body screams. Your jaw tightens. Your stomach turns. You smile and say, “Sure, no problem.”
I used to think being agreeable made me good. What it made me was exhausted. And resentful. And invisible.
This is about the messy, liberating art of setting boundaries, even if your voice shakes, even if you’ve never seen it modelled, even if it costs you people who only loved the version of you that said yes too often.
Where We Learn to Over-Give
We don’t come out of the womb clutching a to-do list and an apology. That’s learned. Most of us were raised to be good girls and boys, to not make waves, to share even when it hurt. And if you’re someone who’s lived through trauma or chronic illness, the habit of over-giving becomes a survival strategy. We give more, so we’re not abandoned. We stay quiet so we’re not punished. We work twice as hard to prove we’re worth the space we take up. Then there’s the capitalist cherry on top: if you can do more, you should. Productivity becomes morality. Rest is suspect. And boundaries? Selfish. That’s the lie they sell us so we’ll keep bleeding ourselves dry.
What Happens When You Don’t
The body keeps the receipts. Fatigue. Resentment. MS flares. Migraines. Rage that simmers under your skin until it boils over or turns inward. When you don’t set boundaries, your body will eventually do it for you. And the people who benefit from your lack of boundaries? They’re not going to suggest you take better care of yourself. They’re not going to set limits for you. That’s your job. Without boundaries, you become a ghost in your own damn life, present, but not really there.
Boundaries Are Not Walls
People get twitchy around boundaries because they mistake them for barriers. But boundaries aren’t walls. They’re bridges with toll booths. They say, “You can come closer, but here are the terms.” Boundaries allow love in, real love, not the manipulative, shape-shift-until-you’re-pleasing kind. You can say, “I love you, but I don’t take work calls after 6 PM.” Or, “I care about you, but I’m not your emotional landfill.” Boundaries are not ultimatums. They are clarity. And clarity is kindness, even if sometimes it sounds like fire.
What Saying No Can Sound Like
Saying no doesn’t need to come with a PowerPoint presentation and a side of guilt. Sometimes it’s just: “No.” Or: “That doesn’t work for me.” Or the power move of silence. You don’t owe an explanation for protecting your peace. And yes, you’re allowed to say no to people who love you, people who raised you, people who expect the old version of you to show up on cue. Every no is a yes to something else. A yes to your body. Your time. Your sanity.
Expect the Pushback
You will be called selfish. Dramatic. Cold. Especially if you’re a woman, or someone socialised to be the fixer, the feeler, the forgiver. But hear this: you’re not selfish. You’re sober now. You’ve sobered up from the belief that you must earn your place by disappearing. Some people won’t like the new you. Let them leave. That’s not a failure, that’s a filter. The ones who stay? Those are your people. Those are the ones who can love you with your spine intact.
Boundaries for Chronic Illness & Energy Management
If your body is already fighting battles no one can see, your boundaries are your armour. Cancel the plans. Turn off your phone. Say, “I can’t do that today” without a TED Talk. You don’t owe anyone an explanation for how you manage your health, your pain, your rest. Boundaries aren’t just emotional tools; they are survival gear. Especially when every decision costs energy you can’t afford to waste.
Personal Note
For me, learning to say no started with getting sick. MS didn’t just strip my nerves, it stripped my tolerance for bullshit. I don’t have the energy to please and perform anymore. What’s left is a very raw, very real version of me. She’s not for everyone. But damn, she’s finally for me.
And with that came loss. I lost a lot of people, people who were only around for the good times, for the easy yeses, for the mountains of emotional support I used to give without question. When I got sick and started drawing lines in the sand, some vanished overnight. Boundaries have a brutal kind of clarity. They show you who’s in your corner because they love you, and who was only there for what they could get.
I’m sick. And I’m Tired of Pretending It’s Okay.
My legs gave out again yesterday.
I was walking, just walking, and suddenly the signal from my brain went silent like a dropped call. It’s the second time this has happened to me. It’s really strange because it takes a moment for the signal to reconnect, and during that moment, which feels far longer than it actually is, my arms flail about trying to find something to grab hold of, even though it is an entirely pointless exercise. I hit the ground hard, narrowly escaping hitting my head against a brick step. I’ve torn the same calf muscle four times. I know the pain intimately, like a pain you thought you’d outgrown but still clings like smoke to your clothes.
But this isn’t about the fall. Not really. It’s the shrinking in someone’s eyes when I say, “I have MS.”
Multiple Sclerosis.
You’ve heard the name. Maybe you’ve seen a celebrity wear a ribbon or a TikToker do a day-in-my-life with a cane and a glossy filter. But unless it’s in your body, or someone you love is limping through this mess, you don’t really know.
So let me tell you.
MS is a full-time job I never applied for
Multiple Sclerosis is an autoimmune disease where your body, your own beautiful, broken, fiercely trying body, decides to eat away at your nerves. The myelin sheath that protects your neurons gets attacked, and like frayed electrical wires, the signals get patchy. Delayed. Disrupted. Or gone entirely.
It’s not predictable. It’s not curable. It’s not one-size-fits-all. No, yoga and oat milk matcha spirulina chia smoothies are not going to cure it. Yes, I’ve tried.
But more to the point, it sure as hell isn’t funny.
For me, it means:
- Pain that stabs and twists like barbed wire in my calves.
- Spasticity that locks my legs in place like rusted bolts.
- Hands that stiffen and fingers that won’t move.
- Fatigue that isn’t “tired.” It’s “my bones have been replaced with concrete and I can’t lift my arms to wash my hair.”
- Brain fog that makes me lose my train of thought mid-sentence, or forget words like “kettle” and “Thursday.”
- Vision blurring, numb hands, trouble swallowing, and the occasional delightful surprise of losing control of my own limbs.
- Painful electrical pulses that shoot through your body, anywhere, any time, every day. The ones I rarely talk about out loud.
- And let’s not forget the big daddy of dickheads. The hug that crushes your lungs and stabs you in the chest if you try to take a breath or move before it’s done torturing you.
And stress? It pours gasoline on all of it.
Stress is not just a trigger; it’s a loaded gun
When I’m stressed, when life delivers too much grief, too many bills, too many people expecting me to perform wellness like a broken-down show pony, my symptoms flare.
I lose strength. I lose sleep. I lose pieces of myself.
The problem is, the world doesn’t see the flare.
They see me cancel plans. They see me slow down. They see me quiet. And instead of understanding or patience, I get comments.
- “Must be nice to lie in bed all day.”
- “You don’t look sick.”
- “We all get tired, you just have to keep going.”
- “Are you sure it’s not all in your head?” >> No fucking shit, Sherlock! Look at my MRI, my head is full of it.
This is not your punchline
I’ve heard the jokes. Seen the memes. Watched people laugh about forgetting their keys and say to me, “Oops, maybe I also have MS!” (Yeah, not funny.)
I’ve watched people roll their eyes when I say I can’t drive today because my left foot won’t lift properly. I’ve had colleagues act like I’m milking it. I’ve had doctors talk over me, then prescribe yoga and mindfulness when what I need is a damn MRI. I’ve had strangers verbally attack me because I parked in a disabled zone.
I’ve seen pity turn into boredom. Sympathy into silence. And let me tell you: nothing hurts like being dismissed when you’re already fighting your own body just to exist.
What I want you to know
I didn’t choose this.
MS took my ability to dance, to sing, to be spontaneous. It took my certainty. It took the version of me that used to trust my own body and enjoyed life. It took the me that loved to be spontaneous, adventurous, playful. But let me tell you, it didn’t take my fight. I will not sit down and be quiet. I will keep going. I will keep fighting. It did not take my voice.
And so I’m using it.
To say:
- Please stop downplaying invisible illness.
- Please stop measuring someone’s pain against how well they can smile through it or hide the shit show that’s going on inside them.
- Please stop expecting people with chronic conditions to perform gratitude like it’s a damn talent show.
Chronic illness is hard enough without having to fight for legitimacy and dignity.
And I’m tired. So fucking tired. Tired of fighting. Tired of barely surviving. Tired of pretending I’m fine when I’m hanging on by a thread. I don’t get to rest. I don’t get to fall apart. I have to take care of myself, every meal, every bill, every damn decision, in a body that betrays me and reacts to everything I do or feel. And no one sees the cost.
I’m still here
I am still here. Still trying. Still waking up in this fucking body I didn’t choose, but have no choice but to live inside. Yes, there is a lot wrong with me, no, I don’t enjoy it, and no, it’s not funny.
Sometimes I cry from the pain. Sometimes I scream from the frustration. Sometimes I laugh, because if I don’t, I’ll unravel completely.
But I am here. Bruised, exhausted, aching, but here.
And if you’re reading this and you have a chronic illness too, I see you. You’re not lazy. You’re not faking. You’re not alone.
You’re carrying a battle inside your body that most people can’t even imagine.
And you’re still here, too.
What about you?
Have you ever had to defend your pain? To justify your limits?
Tell me. I’m listening.