A Morning in the Sun: This Is What Invisible Pain ‘Looks’ Like

I promised I would share my experience, strength and hope honestly with you all. This was not my favorite one to write- I do not like writing blogs that have no inspiration, thoughts on moving forward, ways of healing. But there are many of us with invisible illnesses, and I am writing this for you.

This was my morning.

Today, I had to go to the pharmacy. They called in the prescription on Monday. I know it’s Saturday. I just couldn’t get there before now. My pharmacy is only a block away—but I haven’t been well enough to make it out into the sun.

Today, I had no choice. Another prescription is coming Monday, and they’re closed Sundays. So I got up early. After my meetings, around 10 a.m., I went before the pain took over.

But the street was blocked off with crime scene tape. Because of course it was. Welcome to downtown New Haven, CT.

Now—most of the officers I’ve met around here have been wonderful. I want to make that abundantly clear - Really great, kind, compassionate people. And because I’m training my dog to be a service animal, I’m always looking for opportunities to expose her to uniforms, to help her learn which ones are safe. Emergency services may be the ones who have to help me one day if I’m unconscious or in danger. She needs to know who to trust. We have an officer that parks near the apartment who is always ready for a little puppy love, and most emergency service personal are typically eager when I approach and say “Hey! Im training a service animal and trying to teach her to respect the uniform, can you come say hi to my dog!”. Yes i scream that from teh sidewalk… and they love it. I have never been told no as long as I have had Nicky, which I am greatful for.

But that was not the experience I had today.

I was already crying when I approached the group of officers. I was in a heavy sweatshirt in the middle of July, trying to shield myself from the sun. Cotton shirts don’t do it anymore—I need serious protection. Because the sun doesn’t just make me uncomfortable. It feels like it’s melting my skin.

I explained through tears that I needed to get to the pharmacy just one block down. Could they please let me through, or escort me? Show me a easy alternative?

If this were a normal city block, I would’ve just rerouted. But in this case, the detour meant nearly six extra blocks in full sun exposure. And for me, that’s not a minor inconvenience. That’s damage.

He didn’t roll his eyes. He didn’t look annoyed. Instead, he gave me that expression I’ve come to recognize—the “I just got out of the academy and I finally get to say no to someone” face. That 25-year-old power trip. He shrugged. He denied my request. Not kindly. Not with concern. Just… shrugged.

I asked if I could go through the parking garage nearby. Another shrug. I asked if it had a back exit. Shrug again. Now - we all know the police know every inch of the city right.. would simple directions have been so hard? Either through the garage or around a different way that may be closer?

I walked down into the garage anyway. I was desperate. But the moment I got a few feet in, I got scared. This is downtown New Haven. It’s not always safe, it wasnt guarded. I wasn’t going to risk it. So I turned around. Still crying. And walked back toward the street.

Right past the officers.

I ended up walking for nearly an hour. In the sun. In pain. My body screaming as I was walking slower and slower, doubling over holding my head. By the time I made it to the pharmacy, I told them I can’t come here anymore. I need a drive-thru pharmacy. Not that driving is safer but I can’t do this ever again.

Maybe if I had a walker. Maybe if I was dragging a cast behind me or holding a white cane out in front like a blind person. Maybe then someone would’ve taken me seriously. But I’m “just” underweight and pale and frail-looking. I still look like I should be fine. So apparently, that means I am.

That officer didn’t see the emergency because my disability is invisible. You cannot see how I feel, as if I were blind or with a broken leg. There are so many of us.

This is what chronic illness looks like. It doesn’t always scream. Sometimes it whispers, and people ignore the whisper. Sometimes it hides beneath skin and silence. But it is no less real. No less life-altering. We do not have to PROVE anything to you. We need to say “I am disabled with X, can you help?”. There are many amazing people in this world, but there are also people who like to feel bigger, stronger, better.

I’m used to this, honestly—even from the people closest. Some of them still roll their eyes when I speak about my pain. They make faces. Crack jokes. They imply I’m being dramatic, lazy, or just trying to get attention. That I’m not “really” sick. That I don’t look sick enough to deserve care. That I’m somehow not enough of something to be taken seriously.

Meanwhile, my neurologist—who’s been seeing me every 11 days for years—looked me in the eye just this week and said, “Dana, you are the most severe case I have ever seen in all my years. We’re doing everything we can to keep you comfortable, but Yale has nothing left to offer. You need to go to the Mayo Clinic.”

I didn’t have the heart to tell him why I’m not already there.

Because when I asked for help, the people I trusted offered it with conditions. Unsafe ones. Unstable ones. Ones that would force me to call every night and beg for a credit card, which would be given per their discretion (a decision they would make while not being present)I was told my choices didn’t matter. My emotions didn’t matter. My safety didn’t matter. What mattered was compliance—saying yes to something I knew in my gut would put me in harm’s way.

And when I didn’t say yes? I was told I no longer had the right to speak about my pain.

Let that sink in: no right to speak about my pain. I still declined because, how could i possibly trust discretionary help like that?? If I had spoken these terms to them from someone else they would have immedately told me to decline. Therefore that is exactly what I did - and I am unable to get medical treatment due to this. My hands are tied and they know it - but guess what, I’m still not getting treatment - right?

Over the years I’ve spent surviving this disease, I’ve been mocked. Pressured. Expected to do more, be more, give more—told to go get a job when I could barely hold myself upright or was on bedrest. And when I couldn’t meet those expectations? Their love shifted. It became conditional—dependent on whether I fit into a version of me they found acceptable.

They hate that I write these truths. But instead of asking why I’m hurting or how they could support me, they lash out. If I tried to count the number of times I was told my feelings were wrong, I couldn’t. It’s more than I can carry. Instead of reading these and thinking “Wow, I didnt realize how much I hurt her feelings when I said that” it is undoubtably “How dare she feel that way”. They accuse me of being cruel for having emotions (it is now, at 40 years old I am realzing I was actually never allowed to have my own thoughts, feelings or emotions). What a terrible realization that was back in June - I almost lost my sobriety over it. I was told, in writing, that I don’t have the right to feel what I feel—and certainly not to express it.

Therefore there is no resolution on the horizon.

I’m doing a lot of work now—quiet, deep, painful work—untangling all of this. Unlearning what I was taught: that love is earned, that emotions are dangerous, my personality is “wrong”, my status or what people think is more important than my wellbeing, that needs make me weak.

I’m learning that kindness doesn’t require silence, and boundaries aren’t betrayals.

Because I never want to become what hurt me. I never want to dismiss someone’s pain just because it makes me uncomfortable. I never want to shut someone down just because I don’t understand what they’re going through. I know now how much that can destroy a person. This is why I share it with you instead of them. WE can be the change. WE can break those generational curses. WE do NOT have to be cruel because our role models are. WE CAN DO BETTER.

It breaks my heart. It keeps me up at night. It’s devastating to watch the people I loved change so much. What once felt like selflessness has curdled into control. What once felt like generosity now feels like bullying. Trust broke, credibility shattered. All the things they have obviously felt about me for years - I now feel and its awful. It is the saddest, most heartbreaking devestation I have felt emotionally. No death or breakup has come close.

So I grieve. I let myself feel it because my feelings ARE valid. And I do the only thing I can: I became what Dana needed the most. I vow to never pass that pain forward. Their love may be conditional but mine isn’t. Mine has never been. My love is unconditional. Even when theirs is not. I was raised better than that. But - here is the key I am learning. My love may be unconditional, but access to me is not. I do not have to deal with toxic behavior. I do not have to be a doormat to abuse.

As for the officer—here’s the most difficult part. I’m someone who actually wants to believe in the system. I respect police officers. I know many of them are doing hard, essential, dangerous work.

But today? I was reminded that not every badge is worn by someone who understands the weight of it. And when you live with chronic illness, you learn to pick your battles carefully. I’ve been in situations where I should’ve called the police—but I didn’t. Because I wasn’t sure if I’d get someone like the kind-hearted sergeant who helped me once… or someone like this kid, puffed up and thrilled to deny someone in pain.

And I just can’t afford to take that risk. I am teaching my dog to respect a uniform that I have to remind myself to respect sometimes myself - because - for every 1 bad there are so many good ones. Luckily, this isn’t a child I have to explain this to. Its Nicky. I may never be able to have a family of my own. Time will tell, but today I am grateful I am not lying through my teeth, explaining to a 5year old why a police officer did not try to offer help, directions, or thoughts on how we could get to our pharmacy safely.

So no, this isn’t an inspirational post. There’s no pretty bow. No clever metaphor or uplifting takeaway. Sometimes there just is not.. all we can do is learn.

This is just a sad story. And unfortunately, it’s not unique. I said I would share the good, bad and ugly. My own personal day in and day out experiences.

There is SO much more than you read about on google.

There is SO much more to each and every one of you.

I have very little memory so I need to sit down and write if I am going to share. I may not remember any of this tomorrow… yes, my memory is at that point. But this just happened and I am telling it exactly as it happened.

What happened today triggered a flare. I don’t know if it’ll last a day or a week. But I’m down for the count due to the sunlight. This is life with invisible illness. And this is what happens when the world doesn’t believe you unless you’re bleeding.

I wrote this for those struggling with invisible illnesses. Life may not be easy - but if you are just doing your best to make it through the day in despite of everyone trying to put you down - I see you. This is your place. We are building a beautiful little community here at Dove Recovery Art. I respond to EVERY email… were not big enough that I cant. I hope to always be able to respond to every email and will always do my best. I respond personally… no AI, no secretary. Me - Dana Overland. I want you here, you belong here if you want to for as long as you want to… your safe with me.

I will keep fighting, screaming from the rooftops. You can count on it as long as there is breath in my body.

With Love,

Dana & Nicky.

Shout out to the CT New Haven Police Department. I hope your next citizen in crisis gets a better one than I did.