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The Unofficial Chronic Illness Starter Pack: 13 Things We All Somehow End Up Owning

There’s no “welcome packet” when you join the chronic illness club. No orientation video, no handbook, not even a “sorry your body betrayed you” cupcake. But give it a year or two, and like clockwork, you’ll somehow accumulate the exact same stuff as every other chronically ill human alive.

It doesn’t matter what your diagnosis is — autoimmune, neurological, connective tissue chaos, or “we still don’t know but it’s definitely something.” You’ll still end up with this exact lineup. Consider it the unofficial starter pack for a life you didn’t sign up for.


1. The Heating Pad That’s Basically a Limb Now

Not a heating pad. The heating pad. The emotional-support heating device that never leaves your side. The one that smells a little… “well-loved.” The one that goes on vacation with you, because without it, you might as well just stay home and cry.

Bonus points if you own more than one: couch pad, bed pad, travel pad. If there’s an outlet nearby, there’s probably a heating pad plugged into it.


2. The Pill Organizer That Screams “Elder Millennial in Crisis”

Remember when you thought pill organizers were for your grandma? That’s adorable. Now you’ve got the jumbo one with four compartments per day and color-coded sections that could rival a NASA launch sequence.

You’ve upgraded at least twice. You’ve probably dropped it at least once and watched your entire week scatter across the floor like medical confetti.


3. The Hydration Graveyard

“You need to drink more water!” they said. So you bought every water bottle known to humankind. The motivational one with time stamps. The $40 one that promised to change your life. The one with a straw that always smells faintly weird.

And yet… you’re still dehydrated. But at least your shelf looks like an REI display.


4. Compression Socks That Deserve Their Own Fashion Line

When you first bought them, you swore they were temporary. Now you’ve got rainbow stripes, polka dots, and ones that match your pajamas.

Nothing like someone complimenting your “cute socks” while you’re over here preventing blood from pooling in your legs like a human Capri Sun.


5. Meds You’re 70% Sure You Still Need

Your medicine cabinet looks like a CVS threw up. Some prescriptions you take daily, some “just in case,” and others that you can’t remember why you still have but you’re too scared to stop taking.

At least once a week you’re googling, “can I take this one with food or nah?”


6. The Sacred Comfort Outfit

Elastic waistband. Zero zippers. Fabric so soft it might disintegrate soon but you’ll die before you part with it.

You own duplicates because when you find something that doesn’t make your body angry, you commit.


7. The Ice Pack Army

The freezer is 80% ice packs and 20% actual food. There are gel ones, flexible ones, and the infamous bag of peas that’s been there since the Obama administration.

Visitors open your freezer and immediately regret asking questions.


8. Pillows. So Many Pillows.

You’ve got regular pillows, wedge pillows, knee pillows, body pillows, and that expensive orthopedic one you swear doesn’t help but you’re too stubborn to admit it.

Your bed looks like a cloud exploded. Your couch looks like a pillow fort designed by an overachiever.


9. Your Personal Medical Archive

You could open a small clinic with your paperwork. Test results, specialist notes, insurance denials, and that one referral you might need someday.

Because if you don’t keep copies, you’ll end up explaining your entire medical history from scratch at every appointment anyway.


10. The Blanket Multiverse

Weighted blanket. Heated blanket. Soft blanket. “Don’t touch me” blanket. “Only this texture doesn’t make me rage” blanket.

You’ve reached a point where you can’t sit anywhere without instinctively grabbing one. It’s fine. It’s cozy. You’ve accepted it.


11. Snacks on Standby

Every bag, drawer, and vehicle has a snack stash. Protein bars, nuts, crackers, and that one emergency granola bar that’s probably older than your pet but still good in a pinch.

Low blood sugar waits for no one.


12. The Endless Notebook Collection

Symptom logs, med trackers, food diaries, mood charts, appointment notes. Every notebook started with good intentions and ended three pages in.

You’ve also tried every app known to mankind, but somehow keep coming back to paper and pen.


13. A Dark, Sparkly Sense of Humor

You can’t buy this one, but it’s essential. If you can’t laugh at your heating pad dependency and your pharmacy-sized pill case, you’ll lose your mind.

Because crying hurts your head, and honestly, we’re low on spoons for that today.


The Unspoken Truth

If you’re reading this while sitting on your heating pad, wrapped in a blanket, surrounded by snacks and water bottles you forgot to refill — congrats, you’re one of us now.

The chronic illness starter pack isn’t sold anywhere. You build it piece by piece, fueled by trial, error, and desperate 2 a.m. Amazon searches.

We didn’t choose this starter pack. But we’re making it work — one heating pad session, one sarcastic laugh, one survival day at a time. Til next time gang, take care of yourselves, and each other!

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7 Conversations I’ve Had With Myself This Week

Look, I talk to myself. A lot. And not in the cute “oh, I’m just thinking out loud” way that neurotypical people do. I’m talking full-blown conversations, complete with tone changes, arguments, and occasionally losing said arguments to myself. If you have ADHD, chronic illness, or just a generally chaotic brain, you know exactly what I’m talking about.

Here are seven actual conversations I’ve had with myself this week. I’m not proud of most of them, but I’m also not surprised by any of them.

1. The Medication Negotiation

Me at 8 AM: “Okay, time to take your pills.”

Also me: “But do I really NEED them today? I feel fine.”

Me: “You feel fine BECAUSE of the pills, you absolute potato.”

Also me: “But what if I’ve been healed by positive thinking and I don’t need them anymore?”

Me: “We’ve been through this. Take the damn pills.”

Also me: “Fine, but I’m not happy about it.”

[Takes pills]

Me, two hours later when brain fog hits: “Why didn’t I take my pills on time?”

Also me: “…We literally just had this conversation.”

2. The Food Decision Paralysis

Me, standing in kitchen: “I should eat something.”

Also me: “Agreed. What do we want?”

Me: “I don’t know, what sounds good?”

Also me: “Nothing sounds good.”

Me: “Okay, what do we HAVE?”

Also me: “Everything and nothing.”

Me: “That’s not helpful.”

Also me: “Neither is staring into the fridge like it’s going to solve our problems.”

Me: “What if we just eat cereal again?”

Also me: “We had cereal for dinner last night.”

Me: “Your point?”

[Grabs bowl]

3. The Task Initiation Battle

Me: “I need to start that thing.”

Also me: “Which thing?”

Me: “You know, THE thing. The important thing.”

Also me: “Oh right. When are we doing that?”

Me: “Now. We’re doing it now.”

Also me: “But first, let me just check my phone real quick.”

Me: “NO. We’re not doing this.”

Also me: “Just one quick scroll.”

Me: “It’s never one quick scroll and you know it.”

Also me: “But what if someone texted us?”

Me: “They didn’t.”

Also me: “But what if they did and it’s urgent?”

Me: “FINE. Five minutes.”

[Three hours later]

Me: “We never started the thing, did we?”

Also me: “…In our defense, we learned a lot about seahorse reproduction.”

4. The Sleep Schedule Delusion

Me at 9 PM: “We should go to bed.”

Also me: “But I’m not tired.”

Me: “We’re never tired at bedtime. That’s literally our thing.”

Also me: “What if tonight is different?”

Me: “It’s not. Go to bed.”

Also me: “But what if I just scroll for a bit and THEN go to bed?”

Me: “That has literally never worked.”

Also me: “There’s a first time for everything.”

[At 2 AM]

Me: “I hate us.”

Also me: “Same.”

5. The Executive Function Check-In

Me: “Have we showered today?”

Also me: “…Define ‘today.'”

Me: “The current 24-hour period.”

Also me: “Then no.”

Me: “What about yesterday?”

Also me: “I plead the fifth.”

Me: “We need to shower.”

Also me: “That sounds like a lot of steps.”

Me: “It’s literally just standing in water.”

Also me: “Yeah, but first we have to DECIDE to shower, then remember to shower, then actually GET IN the shower, then remember what order the shower things go in…”

Me: “Okay I see your point.”

Also me: “Plus we’d have to find a clean towel.”

Me: “Never mind. We’ll shower tomorrow.”

Also me: “Bold of you to assume tomorrow will be any different.”

6. The Pain Scale Debate

Me: “Ow.”

Also me: “What’s the pain level?”

Me: “I don’t know, like a 6?”

Also me: “Is it though? Remember that time we thought 7 was bad and then we had that 9?”

Me: “Good point. Maybe it’s a 5.”

Also me: “But if it’s a 5, should we take pain meds?”

Me: “I don’t know, what if it gets worse and we already used up our meds?”

Also me: “But what if we DON’T take meds and it gets worse anyway?”

Me: “What if we just suffer through it and prove we’re tough?”

Also me: “That sounds like internalized ableism.”

Me: “You’re right. Okay, taking meds.”

Also me: “Wait, did we already take meds today?”

Me: “…I don’t remember.”

Also me: “Cool, cool. This is fine. Everything is fine.”

7. The Bedtime Existential Crisis

Me at 1 AM: “Why are we like this?”

Also me: “Like what?”

Me: “You know… LIKE THIS. The chaos. The forgetting. The talking to ourselves at 1 AM.”

Also me: “It’s not our fault our brain is wired differently.”

Me: “I know, but sometimes I wish we were just… normal.”

Also me: “Normal people are boring.”

Me: “Normal people remember to pay bills on time.”

Also me: “Okay, fair point.”

Me: “Normal people don’t have to negotiate with themselves about basic tasks.”

Also me: “But would we really want to be normal if it meant losing our creativity? Our hyperfocus superpowers? Our ability to make connections nobody else sees?”

Me: “…Are you just trying to make us feel better?”

Also me: “Is it working?”

Me: “A little.”

Also me: “Then yes, that’s exactly what I’m doing.”

Me: “We should probably go to sleep.”

Also me: “Agreed. Right after we Google one quick thing.”

Me: “We both know that’s a lie.”

Also me: “And yet here we are.”


The Conclusion I Didn’t Ask For

The truth is, talking to myself has become such a normal part of my life that I forget other people don’t do this. Or at least, they don’t do it out loud. Or with multiple distinct personalities arguing about whether cereal counts as dinner.

But here’s the thing: these internal (and sometimes external) conversations are how my brain processes things. It’s how I work through decisions, remember tasks, and occasionally talk myself into doing basic human functions like showering and eating vegetables.

Is it weird? Absolutely. Is it exhausting? You have no idea. Would I change it if I could?

Ask me again after I’ve had some sleep. And by sleep, I mean after I finish this one last Google search about whether other people have full conversations with themselves or if I should be concerned. Til next time gang, take care of yourself, and each other.

[Spoiler alert: I Googled it. It’s apparently normal. We’re fine. Probably.]