Toxic Positivity: Stop Trying to Make Kale Happen
I’ve done all the wellness, self-care things. Spoiler: still allergic to being alive.
Sober? Check.
Yoga? Check.
EMDR? Check.
Diets? Check.
Lost weight because apparently my chronic pain was just me being “fat and lazy”? Check.
Supplements, therapy, meditation, trauma release, blah blah blah.
And guess what, y’all? Still hurts. Still migraines, still burning hips, still tingling feet, still body collapsing when I try to exist like a normal mammal.
Meanwhile, I have to listen to people ask if I’ve drank enough water. Lolll biitch, do you not see my HydroFlask glued to my hand?!
Gaslighting: She Doesn’t Even Go Here (But My Symptoms Do)
Every interaction is a reminder that maybe this is all “in my head.” Like fuck me for existing, right?
Doctors raise their eyebrows. Therapists remind me “the body keeps the score.” (Cool, so what’s the final tally? Because I’d like to cash out now.) Friends gently suggest I relax more, like stress is a demon squatting in my spine instead of, you know, actual nerve issues.
I even gaslight myself. I’ve cried on the bathroom floor not being able to move half my body thinking: What if I’m just weak? What if I’m actually making this up for attention?
But here’s what the wellness industry doesn’t want you to know… I only experience relief when I am:
- Laughing at TikToks with my cousin
- Doodling Schmidty’s cartoonish expressions
- Giving Lulu an aggressive belly rub
- Decorating cupcakes to look like animal faces
- Tightly hugging the love of my life after a long day
- Blasting Cabal as a Void Warlock with my Graviton Lance
- Building ridiculously overpriced Lego sets
Because these things bring me joy.
Joy helps. It’s the only thing that helps.
Not keto. Not yoga. Not meditation. JOY. Which is funny because joy is free, but somehow doctors keep prescribing kale like it’s a controlled substance.
I saw Cady Heron wearing FL-41s and ice packs, so I bought FL-41s and ice packs.
And look, I’m not knocking living a healthy lifestyle. Traditional self-care has helped nearly all areas of my life: self-esteem, emotional regulation, metabolic functioning, inter-and intrapersonal relationships, ect. And for that, I am truly grateful.
But the more I healed other areas of my life, the more exposed and pronounced my chronic health issues peaked through. The more I noticed there is nothing I can do to stop my body from carrying an invisible illness.
Self-care has healed so many parts of me, physically, mentally, and spiritually…. except for my illusive, undiagnosable chronic health condition that causes debilitating pain whenever it’s feelin’ frisky.
Joy is the only thing that puts that bish in her place.
Hot Water, Hot Mess: Get in, Loser, We’re Going to the ER
The truth is, this body has been breaking down in little ways for years. Heat has always been my undoing. Baths, hot days, even standing under fluorescent lights — I wilt, I burn, I shut down.
Case in point: the bath incident.
You’d think a warm soak would be “healing,” right? Wrong. For me, it’s Russian roulette with bubbles and lavender oil. This time, I stood up from a shallow bath and my body just said nah, we’re done here.
Collapsed. Literally. Couldn’t walk. Couldn’t move. Brain on, body off. My partner checking my pulse every like my chart reads “Q15”. All while I was trapped in my own skin suit like a busted marionette doll.
Doctors call that a “migraine variant.” Therapists call it “trauma response.” Bosses call it “absenteeism.” I call it a locked-in discount trial where the unsubscribe button doesn’t exist.
All the box breathing in the world couldn’t have stopped my central nervous system from deciding to quite literally reboot on a random Saturday afternoon.
Some of us can’t “self care” our way out legitimate, medical, physical invisible illnesses.
Death by Capitalism: Raise Your Hand if You’ve Ever Been Personally Victimized by Hustle Culture
Capitalism fucking hates me, but don’t worry, Boo, feeling’s mutual.
I’ve been fortunate enough in the past to have employers respect me enough as a human to see that when I’m given reasonable accommodations, I am a really badass, reliable worker.
At some point, my last boss straight up said, “Look, I don’t care what time you come in or what time you leave, I’m not going to watch your clock, because you’re one of the best employees we’ve ever had. So just take care of yourself, because I don’t want you to leave.”
Now working for the Department of Health, ironically, bureaucracy still doesn’t give a fuck about me or my disabilities.
I’ve carried that shame since the day I mentioned my disability in the job interview, trying to be transparent about needing an accommodation. The interviewer looked at me and said, “I don’t think you should be bringing this up. This is an ADA issue.” I left feeling like I had confessed a crime.
My supervisor (who, hilariously, is a lawyer) told me I had to provide a “diagnosis” in order to even begin a disability accommodation request. That’s not even true under ADA, but hey, why let facts ruin a perfectly good power trip?
Oh my god, Karen, you can’t just ask people why they’re sick.
So here I am, showing up to work even when my vision disappears, my hips feel like they’ve been set on fire, and my feet are made of TV static.
Because capitalism doesn’t reward honesty, it rewards butts-in-seats. Capitalism is a fucking parasite that values time and loyalty over actual deliverables.
After six months of trying to get a reasonable accommodation to work from home during severe flares — while 60% of the office already teleworks — my supervisor has systematically deployed the holy trinity of dilatory tactics: DELAY, DISTRACT, DENY.
Like I’m not a chronically ill employee trying to stay afloat, but some billionaire’s wife clawing her way through a divorce without a prenup. And then he has the audacity to suggest yoga and veggies. (Don’t worry bbs, the EEO and HR are already on it).
And if I call out sick, I run out of leave, which means financial hardship, which makes me sicker, which makes me call out sick…
Fun cycle, right?
The Mask Slips: On Wednesdays We Wear Ice Packs
My dad asked me the other day, “Why now? Why do you think your symptoms have gotten worse?”
I’ve called these collapses “migraines” because that’s the neatest box available.
But the reality is stranger: I am conscious but trapped, my brain awake but my body unresponsive. It looks like sleep, but it feels like drowning inside my own skin.
I know what you’re thinking. I manifested this. I shouldn’t have been such a 2007 hipster-stan for the Diving Bell and the Butterfly. *Hits self on head repeating “Stupid! Stupid! Stupid!“*
(P.S. I can make that joke because I got the ’tism and I legitimately do that when I’m overstimulated.)
To answer his question, the only word for what’s happening: unmasking.
Losing weight, therapy, meditation, the discipline—they didn’t cause my body to break. It just peeled off the “as seen on TV” Flex Tape holding me together.
The symptoms aren’t new; they’ve been hiding under layers of coping and shame. Traditional self-care stripped away the camouflage.
The scaffolding I built to survive can’t hide the cracks anymore. And now the real fault lines are visible: the neurological storms, the pins and needles, the collapse.
The more authentic I became, the more my body exposed the pain it has been harboring for a decade. I’ve just been calling it different names all this time: Migraine, Panic Attack, Burnout, Too Much Taco Bell.
The Naked Truth: You Can’t Sit With Us! (Unless You Have My RA Letter)
Now it’s unmasked. And let me tell you, she ain’t cute, but she has one helluva punch!
I used to think I could out-smart my body. Out-train it, out-eat it, out-therapy it. But bodies don’t negotiate. They don’t care how productive capitalism wants us to be. They don’t give out pay raises for broccoli.
So here’s the truth I have to keep anchoring back to:
I’m not faking this.
I’m not lazy.
I’m not just a “migraine girlie” with a bad attitude.
I’m someone whose body keeps short-circuiting, and the only time I feel alive is when I’m making art, laughing, loving, or watching Schmidty be the little gremlin-guardian he is.
I am living with something real, something still unnamed, and it is allowed to be real even before it is diagnosed.
And while the world tells me to fix, to optimize, to muscle through—I will keep finding joy in the cracks. Because joy, not shame, is what makes my body exhale.
So no, I don’t need more yoga. I need space. I need joy. I need the world to stop demanding I smile through the pain and the fucking dignity not to apologize for bleeding on your shirt.
This isn’t the mathletes; the limit does exist.
by Thalia Graves
Purple Vanilla World, 2025
Purple Vanilla World 
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