I’m guilty of it, too.

The boredom with someone else’s maladies,
the endless litany of symptoms,
the constant whining and repetition of need.
It’s always something.
Not just for sniffles or aching muscles but
real scary, life-threatening shit.
I’ve stood at the sickbed of loved ones and wished
they would get better or die.
Anything to make the tedium end
for me.

And now it’s my turn.

I’m boring other people with my fear,
shoving it in their faces
when they half-ask how I’m doing.
It gets old.
But that’s the world when it’s you that suffers,
feeling frail, tiny, and weak.
Your distress leaks out of your mind as complaining
or attention-getting hypochondria.
Not on purpose but because it’s all you
think about.

I try to keep it to myself – except for when I don’t.
Sometimes, an honest sharing of pain is the best medicine.
.