13 Years of Fighting an Invisible Battle
Recently, I reviewed medical notes from a doctor who is helping me investigate what may be driving the chronic symptoms I've experienced for over a decade.
The notes listed fatigue, fibromyalgia, blurred vision, neuralgia, insomnia, temperature dysregulation, IBS, GERD, hormone issues, anxiety, depression, muscle pain, nerve sensitivity, and more.
I've known all of those symptoms individually.
What I wasn't prepared for was seeing them all together.
For years, I've been dealing with these issues one at a time. One doctor's appointment. One surgery. One infection. One sleepless night. One flare. One setback.
But reading that summary forced me to see something different.
This wasn't a collection of random problems.
This has been one giant fight.
A thirteen-year fight.
And honestly, that realization hit me harder than any lab result.
Because while all of this was happening, I still showed up.
I showed up as a father.
I showed up as a husband.
I showed up as an artist.
I showed up as an entrepreneur.
I showed up as a student.
I showed up as a mentor.
I showed up for clients, deadlines, opportunities, and responsibilities.
Most people only see the things I've accomplished… or what I'm not doing.
They don't see the cost.
They don't see that sometimes a shower feels like a workout.
They don't see the days when poor sleep steals every ounce of energy before the day even starts.
They don't see the calculations that happen constantly in my head:
“Do I have enough energy for this?”
“Will this crash me later?”
“Can I recover from this?”
The hardest part isn't always the symptoms.
It's the invisibility.
People care. I truly believe that.
But very few people understand.
When someone says, "I hope you feel better," I appreciate it.
When someone says, "God can heal you," I believe that too.
But faith doesn't erase the reality that I still have to wake up tomorrow and live in the body I have today.
Faith and exhaustion can exist in the same space.
Lately, I've found myself asking a question that feels uncomfortable to say out loud:
Why live through it to live like this?
I'm not asking from a place of giving up.
I'm asking from a place of grief.
Because sometimes I look back at everything I've survived, the surgeries, the sepsis, the complications, the eleven infections, the years of symptoms, and I wonder why the aftermath has been so brutal.
I survived. I did.
Many days it feels like survival came with a bill I am still paying.
And maybe that's what I'm grieving.
Not just what happened.
But what it cost.
The energy.
The opportunities.
The confidence.
The simplicity of waking up and not having to think about your body.
At the same time, I know there is another side to this story.
Because despite everything, I'm still here.
Still creating.
Still believing.
Still praying.
Still fighting for answers.
Still fighting for healing.
Still fighting for my son.
Still fighting for the future I believe is possible.
Recently, I created an image of myself as "Chronic Illness Man," a superhero born from thirteen years of invisible battles.
At first, it was supposed to be funny.
Then I realized something.
The superhero isn't the fantasy.
The cape is.
The real part is the man who kept showing up while carrying all of this weight.
I don't know what the final diagnosis will be.
I don't know whether the answer is CIRS, dysautonomia, hormones, mold exposure, post-sepsis complications, or some combination of many things.
I don't know how long the road ahead will be.
But I do know this:
For thirteen years, I've been fighting battles most people never saw.
And if you're reading this while carrying your own invisible battle, I want you to know something.
Just because people can't see it doesn't mean it isn't real.
And just because you're tired doesn't mean you're weak.
Sometimes strength looks less like conquering the world and more like getting up one more day and deciding to keep going anyway.
Today, that's enough.
Tomorrow, we'll fight again.
— Jastin Artis