How People Disappear

I’m right here. You may not notice me anymore, but I am still here.

You may think my smile means something. You may believe me when I say, “I’m fine,” because you want to believe me — and then move on.

What else am I supposed to say? When your body repeatedly falls apart, and there is nothing left to try to stop it, are you going to announce, “I’m desperately ill… again”?

I’ve learned that my reality makes people uncomfortable, because eventually, even compassion has a limit. But it’s still my reality.

My reality is more than you want to know, or maybe more than you can handle knowing.  But either way, I’m still here, handling it, because what other choice do I have?

Planning feels pointless when every plan dissolves before my eyes.  It’s hard to take action when your body repeatedly, relentlessly lets you down; when illness and medical urgency demand to be heard above all else.

I hold back even on the things I genuinely want to do, not because I don’t care, not because I don’t have desires, but because caring has become exhausting, and hoping has a cost I can no longer pay.

I’ve stopped imagining the future, not because I don’t care, not because I don’t want one, but because I no longer know where I fit inside it.  Every time I imagine a life ahead, it crumbles before my eyes, and no amount of work or effort changes that reality.

Hope becomes dangerous. Planning becomes cruel. When every plan is eventually taken from you, what is the point of hoping?

The dreams I held, and still hold, don’t disappear, I just quietly let them go as quickly as they appear.  My hand can’t hold the string tight enough, and I watch them, like balloons, disappear into the sky.

They linger as reminders that I am no longer fully living, and yet, I am not dead yet, either.  I’m living in the ether of illness.  I am slowly becoming a memory; someone old friends check in on once in a while before scurrying on with their real lives, that no longer include me.

Empathy becomes cruel when it is the only pattern left in your life. Sympathy is even crueler. 

When your choices are ‘hope and constant disappointment’ or
‘planning for something that will be taken from you and leave you emptier than before’, what do you choose? After a while, you stop choosing at all.

Do you sit and watch the world go by? Do you keep talking about the illnesses that quietly steal your life away? Or do you try to converse, carefully, briefly, until even that becomes too much for others to carry?

After a while, conversation seems useless, too.  You stop contacting anyone, and you imagine their great relief.  And in many ways, your voice starts to embrace the silence.  It’s just easier.

So, I read. I think. I write about things that seem important to fill the minutes and hours that I exist. I tell myself these things matter. And I try to believe it.

Then, even that becomes hollow, because I know, so well, that words are not actions, and the actions are beyond what I can do.  Naively, I thought maybe my words would enough, but slowly, relentlessly, I have realized that is not true – at least not for me. 

How desperately I want it to be true, how desperately I wanted my written words to become my voice, but desperation does not change reality.  Words unread are nothing at all. Words just become something to fill the relentless time that each day takes.

That is the rhythm of my life now.  I am a songbird that no longer has a voice.  I am an eagle that can no longer soar.  I am the broken-down old horse that grazes on a barren field, trudges to a cold stall at night, and searches for a slice of apple in the empty pockets of faceless people I no longer know. 

This is nothing like living.  I have lived and I remember what it feels like. I remember having a small spark that lit one person’s way. The spark is gone, the way has gone dark, and this is nothing like living.

I am the old dog who waits by the door for an owner that has passed away, and I have no idea – only long, empty, faithful days of waiting for a joyful reunion that will never come. 

I’m right here. You may not notice me anymore, but I am still here.  Please, someone notice me.

02/01/2025


What “Four Hours of Activity” Really Means for a Chronically Ill Person

Chronic illness and work are rarely a good match.  This image shows a woman with a chronic illness, dressed nicely for work and ready to go, except she has collapsed in exhaustion in an overstuffed chair.  The effort to get ready for work has taken all of her energy for the day, and she still has to get to work, do the work, get home, take care of the piled-up laundry, put the dishes away, and she is beyond exhausted already.

Chronic Illness and Work

People love to talk about whether chronically ill people can work. You will hear people say, “If you can get out of bed and sit in a chair for four hours, you should be able to work half time.” The implication is clear. If they wanted to work, they would get themselves up and do it.

So many chronically ill people wish it worked that way. They ask themselves over and over, Can I hold a job? Can I show up and be reliable? Can I be productive for a few hours each day? 

Why Four Hours of Activity Is Not the Same as Four Hours of Work

But here is the question that almost never gets asked.  What if you can work, but working takes everything you have? What if your chronic illness does not stop you from earning a paycheck, but it does destroy your ability to have a life outside of work? What if it leaves you without the strength to do your laundry, cook your meals, clean up after yourself, shower, or wash your hair? How can a person survive long term when their most basic needs are not being met?  This is the part people gloss over.

When a medical provider determines that a chronically ill person can be “active for four hours per day,” those hours are often imagined as clean, uninterrupted blocks of productive time. People picture sitting, typing, standing, teaching, or attending a meeting. What they do not picture is everything that has to happen before and after just to exist as a human being.  Being able to be active for four hours is not the same thing as being able to work for four hours.

For someone with a chronic illness, thirty minutes of work may need to be followed by hours of rest just to continue functioning. When their body is pushed beyond its limits, exhaustion is the result. Without adequate rest after exertion, that exhaustion can turn into a flare that leaves them bedridden or homebound for days or even weeks.

The Hidden Energy Cost of Basic Living

Then there are the everyday tasks of basic self-care, which are often dismissed by non-ill people as “non-activities.” For many chronically ill people, these tasks are not only work, but they are also exhausting work.

Laundry is a good example. For a single adult with no spouse and no children, doing one week of laundry sounds simple. Gather clothes, start the washer, move them to the dryer, fold, put away. For someone without physical limitations, that might add up to forty or fifty minutes of active time, spread across a couple of hours.

For someone with a chronic illness, that same laundry often requires pacing. Standing too long hurts. Lifting wet clothes strains joints or a spine. Folding may have to be done seated, with breaks. What once took under an hour can now take an hour and a half, sometimes spread across an entire day or multiple days. And afterward, there may be nothing left.

Grocery shopping is another task people underestimate. Making a list, driving to the store, walking the aisles, standing in line, loading bags, unloading at home. For many people, that takes an hour to an hour and a half.

For someone with pain, fatigue, dizziness, sensory overload, or limited stamina, it can easily take two or three hours. That does not include the recovery time afterward. Online ordering avoids walking, but it still requires planning, decision-making, unpacking, and putting everything away. It also costs more, which many people who are unable to work simply cannot afford.

Cooking is not just “making dinner.” It involves deciding what to eat, standing to prep food, chopping, lifting pans, and monitoring heat. For someone without limitations, that might take forty-five minutes. For someone who cannot stand for long periods or who experiences brain fog or tremors, it can take twice as long and often has to be broken into stages with rest in between.

Then there are the dishes. It might take ten minutes for one person. But it may take twenty or thirty minutes for another, especially if standing hurts or hands fatigue easily. If dishes are postponed because there is no energy left, the task only becomes more overwhelming later.

Even hygiene tasks are not minor. A shower that takes ten minutes for one person can take thirty or forty-five minutes for someone else once balance issues, heat intolerance, fatigue, and recovery time are factored in. For some chronically people, showering is the only major task they can manage in a day.

Brushing teeth is not always a two-minute job. Getting dressed is not always a five-minute job.  Compression garments, braces, orthotics, pain with bending, the need to sit while dressing, or the use of dressing aids can easily turn these tasks into twenty- or thirty-minute efforts.

Packing a lunch sounds trivial until dietary restrictions, limited hand strength, and the mental energy required to plan ahead are considered. Every decision has an energy cost.

None of these tasks are optional. They are not hobbies. They are not leisure. They are basic survival.

And then there is the part that often goes completely uncounted: getting to work and getting home.  A commute is not just time spent in a car or on public transportation. It requires sustained attention, physical positioning, sensory processing, and stress management. For someone without limitations, a fifteen- or thirty-minute commute each way is an inconvenience. For someone with chronic pain, neurological symptoms, fatigue, or mobility issues, it can be a significant drain before the workday even begins.

Getting to work may involve stairs, parking lots, elevators, crowded buses, or long hallways. It may require standing, balancing, or sitting in positions that worsen pain. It often means managing symptoms quietly while trying to arrive looking “fine.”

A fifteen-minute commute in each direction quickly becomes thirty minutes of energy expenditure. A thirty-minute commute becomes an hour. By the time a chronically ill person arrives at work, a large portion of their daily capacity may already be gone. When the workday ends, getting home is not a relief. It is another demand. Another stretch of sustained effort.

That return trip often uses the last usable energy of the day. Whatever is waiting at home: laundry, food, dishes, personal care, now has to be done with whatever remains, if anything remains at all.

Why Chronic Illness Makes Consistent Work So Difficult

And this assumes something else that is rarely true for people with chronica illness: predictability.  People with chronic illnesses are chronically ill. Their capacity is not stable. One day, they may not be able to get out of bed at all. The next day, they may be able to be active for an hour or two. Later in the week, they might have a rare, good day and manage five or six hours of activity.

Employment does not work that way. Most jobs require consistency. They require reliability. They require a predictable schedule. There are very few part-time jobs where someone can show up only on the days they feel well enough and stay home without consequence on the days they do not.

For many chronically ill people, the issue is not willingness or motivation. It is that the nature of their illness makes them unreliable by design.

There is another reality that is rarely acknowledged. Many chronically ill people require accommodations in order to work safely. They may need specialized equipment, adaptive technology, a modified workspace, or a physically accessible environment. They may not be able to climb stairs, stand for extended periods, walk long distances, or safely navigate workplaces without ramps, elevators, supportive seating, or ergonomic workstations. These needs are not preferences. They are requirements.

Yet when chronically ill people apply for jobs, employers are often wary. Even when accommodations are legally required, it is easier to hire someone without additional needs. The presence of accommodations can quietly move a qualified candidate to the bottom of the list.

Pain, Medication, and Employability

Pain adds another layer. Many chronically ill people live with daily pain and require prescribed pain medication to function. These medications are legal and medically necessary, but they can cause grogginess, dizziness, slowed reaction time, or unsteadiness. Even when taken exactly as prescribed, they can make someone appear less alert or less energetic.

This does not make someone incapable. But in a hiring system that values speed, stamina, and appearance over accommodation and understanding, it often makes them the least hireable person in the room.

As a result, chronically ill people, even those who are highly educated, skilled, and experienced, are often pushed toward the least desirable jobs, if they are able to find work at all.

Why the Math Doesn’t Work

When all of this is added together, something becomes very clear. If someone has four hours of usable energy in a day, those hours are often gone before work ever begins.

They are spent getting ready, maintaining a household, feeding themselves, managing hygiene, traveling to and from work, and managing pain. You cannot show up to work unwashed, in dirty clothes, with unbrushed teeth, because you did not have the strength to care for yourself first.

The idea that those same four hours can simply be handed over to paid work ignores the reality of how chronically ill bodies and chronically ill lives function.

This is why statements like “you can work part time” or “you can manage to go to one class” are based on false assumptions. They count the visible activity and ignore the preparation, the travel, the recovery, the unpredictability, and the structural barriers. They ignore the energy budget entirely.

Able-bodied people often see the things they do easily as “non-activities.” Chronically ill people do not have that luxury. Every task must be planned, measured, and weighed against what it will cost later.

And sometimes, even when something is technically possible, it simply is not doable.

The truth is not that chronically ill people are unwilling to work. The truth is that life itself already consumes so much of their daily capacity that there is little to nothing left for anything else.

When all of the invisible labor is acknowledged, there are not four hours of activity left. Often, there are only minutes.  And how many employers will hire a person for only minutes per day? They won’t, of course.  And the chronically ill person will still face the negative attitudes and judgement of strangers who simply can’t understand why they won’t just “stop being lazy and get a job.” 

These realities are rarely understood or accepted by able-bodied peers. Without understanding the energy cost of basic living, it is easy to assume a chronically ill person is lazy, unmotivated, or unwilling to contribute.

The reality is very different and until that reality is understood, the math will never make sense.


Here are some other articles by Jan Mariet on similar topics.

Reimagining Accessibility:  Undoing Ableism Among  Disabled and Medical Communities – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Can I or Should I? Living With Disability, Risk, and Hard Choices – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Living with Invisible Losses: Finding Meaning in Chronic Illness – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Can I or Should I? Living With Disability, Risk, and Hard Choices

A hostess at the hostess stand of a fancy restaurant is talking on the phone, answering a question.  Her answer is, "Yes, we're accessible, once you get past the front steps."  There are three steps patrons must get up to eat in the restaurant.   Some able-bodies people don't understand that isn't really accessible at all.

Being disabled doesn’t always mean I can’t do something. Sometimes I can but doing it would come with a cost that more able-bodied people do not see and do not understand.

The truth is this; able-bodied people rarely find themselves in a position where they have to choose between doing something they really want to do and incurring long-term pain or even an injury that could put them in the hospital.  For people with life-limiting conditions, we have to face this option often.

So, the question isn’t can I, it’s should I?  And most of the time, the honest answer is no.

Will I sometimes do it anyway? Yes. But that choice has to be rare and made with caution, because even when I can do something, I will still pay for it later with pain, fatigue, soreness, a flare, or even a long-term injury.

Sometimes the situation truly warrants that cost. If a child were injured at the bottom of a stairway, and there was no one else to help,  I would take that risk without hesitation, even knowing it could hurt me or cause me to fall. Some moments have a moral component that calls for action despite the risk.   

But that is a rare exception.  Something like visiting a new nightclub, eating at a fabulous restaurant, or any kind of optional outing that requires me to risk a fall or a broken bone is a situation where I can’t afford to take the risk. In those cases, the cost is not reasonable, and saying no is the responsible choice.

Living with a life-limiting condition means constantly weighing the risks against the consequences. Every yes has consequences.  This is not about fear or unwillingness. It is about reasoning, responsibility, and life experience. When I say no, I am not being difficult or dramatic. I am making a deliberate choice to protect my health, my safety, and my ability to function tomorrow and beyond. That is not weakness. It is wisdom learned the hard way.


Here are more reflections on living with a disability, chronic illness, or a life-limiting condition.

When Change Sneaks Up on You – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

My Story Isn’t Public Property  – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Designer Shoes and Disability: Why Judging Others Is Obscene – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

Disabled People Don’t Need Permission to Enjoy Life – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life

We’ve Been Gaslit So Long, We Gaslight Ourselves – Jan Mariet’s A Day in the Life.