What the Eyes Can't See
My experience of invisible suffering showed me how vulnerability allows others beyond our social façades.
There are certain moments in life that leave an indelible mark upon our hearts. Moments that are so significant, they change our perspective of ourselves and the lives we live, irrevocably. Accomplishments, setbacks, new relationships and losses . . . they all form our stories and the journey from who we were to who we have become. When I look back on the past several years, there are many such moments. But none that have altered my life as significantly as the moment I woke up in the fall of 2017.
That morning, I lay in my bed wrapped in a comforter weeping, as searing pain coursed through my entire body from my toes, all the way up my spine and down my arms to my fingertips. As I slowly breathed, each movement seemed to pull and tug at the very fibres of my muscles, tearing them apart. In this moment, a feeling of dread weighed down upon me like a cold anchor. My life would never again be the same.
The following three months were filled with doctors’ appointments and a waiting period to confirm a diagnosis: I had developed fibromyalgia, a long term incurable condition which causes chronic muscle and joint pain. From this moment on, it would no longer be a question of if I was in pain, but rather how much. Despite the overwhelming challenges I was facing in learning to manage my pain, there was one particular challenge I had not anticipated: being invisible.
About a year after receiving my diagnosis, I was taking public transit home after running a couple of errands. My pain that day was particularly bad and my fatigue so overwhelming that I had no choice but to take a seat on the bus. As the bus began to fill up with more and more passengers, an elderly lady boarded and stood in front of me. Her eyes were full of expectation that I, a young and seemingly healthy individual, would offer my seat out of respect. This look of expectation quickly turned to judgement and scorn as I remained seated and she scoffed while walking away.
In that moment, a deep sense of shame fell over me. Likewise, an intense feeling that I had been harshly judged by a stranger sent a surging wave of indignation through me. By its nature, my condition is one that hides itself from view. There are no visual cues to direct others to the source of my pain. Neither a stranger nor a friend would be able to tell from my appearance that I was suffering. So this suffering remained hidden from the people around me under a façade of big smiles and a cheerful disposition. My pain was invisible.
Regardless of our ethnicity, socioeconomic status, or personal circumstances, suffering and struggles are universal. In some ways, invisible struggles can be the most difficult to endure. The effects of the COVID-19 pandemic are prime examples. The isolation, grief, and fear that the pandemic has inflicted upon people has had a crushing effect on mental health. Unemployment rates rose over the course of the pandemic as businesses had no choice but to shut down or drastically cut down on staff. These effects of these struggles, much like my illness, are things which we might not observe from simply looking at our neighbours. It is only through vulnerability and open dialogue that these issues can be broached and support can be given to people walking with unseen burdens.
Early on in my battle with my condition, I shared my diagnosis with a friend in the hopes of getting support. He told me that he would have never known anything was wrong if I had not explained my condition to him. I could not expect to get the understanding and care I needed from those around me until I was willing to open up and share my struggles.
Yet it is a heavy expectation to demand vulnerability. Being vulnerable about our pain and weakness means that we open ourselves to scrutiny. To be vulnerable is to bare our souls to those around us and present them with our wounded hearts, broken and bleeding. This requires deep trust that our suffering and heartache will be acknowledged and that we will be listened to and loved. When I first received my diagnosis, I had a small group of close friends to whom I turned for comfort as I grieved. I knew, and trusted, that they were a safe haven for me to air my sorrow and simply be loved.
Not to say that this is, in any way, easy. This process of grieving is visceral and raw; it brings our sorrow, pain, anguish, rage, and fear to the surface. Grief in the midst of suffering is complex and there are no easy answers. At times, in our efforts to remind those who are suffering of God’s goodness, we neglect the fact that seeking comfort in God is a process. Time is needed to air pain and sorrow. Interestingly, the first step towards being vulnerable with others in our grief may actually lie in first being vulnerable with God. I remember many nights I spent with tears running down my face while I begged God to rid me of my pain. In those moments, my broken heart was laid bare as I poured out all of my feelings of despair. I desperately desired something to give me hope. It was painful and ugly, but it was real. And through that struggle, I did find the source of my hope. I found Jesus. He is the sure, safe starting point in being vulnerable.
As we are vulnerable with Christ, we can grow to be more transparent with one another. In allowing each other to see behind our masks, we can instead develop deep relationships that create space for lament and joy. We may never know the full impact we will have on the people around us or how far our acts of love might extend, but one thing is clear to me. The starting point seems to be our willingness and commitment to invest beyond the superficial and slowly dismantle our façades. In doing so, we will finally see and know what our eyes alone cannot.
Text: Christina Jeon
Art: Katrina Togeretz