Slowing Disappearing

 

The artwork represents the slow disintegration of identity through a visual language composed of dots, suggesting the relentless progression of a chronic illness.

Each dot is a fragment of life, an energy dispersing into the void, yet together they preserve the essence of the person. From a distance, the surface appears intact, but up close, it reveals a subtle alteration—a mirror of hidden suffering.

Embedded mirrors reflect the light, evoking hope and transcendence, drawing the viewer into a dialogue between dissolution and the possibility of transformation. The face, devoid of defined features, symbolizes depersonalization and social indifference, while the underlying texture suggests resilience.

Time erodes memory and identity, leaving those who suffer in silent oblivion. And yet, within invisibility, a force endures—one that defies indifference.

 

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The Pain of Chronic Illness Destroys.
It blurs dreams and sensations, clouds vision, crumbles emotions, consumes relationships, destroys bones and eats them away, demolishes enthusiasm, suffocates aspirations, dismantles all your efforts, rejects your identity, and shatters the idea of a future.
And yet, how can it be represented in the eyes of others?
If chronic illness is invisible, that searing pain doesn’t exist. And so, it’s not just a physical issue: it’s a social one.

No bruises, no visible trauma, no bleeding wounds. On the contrary, perhaps a nice dress, new lipstick, and long legs. Yet… a visceral physical suffering, eyes ringed with exhausting fatigue, legs drained and giving up, daily life shrinking, the smallest goals vanishing, habits reinvented: a daily pain that, for anyone else, would mean “a trip to the ER,” coupled with the awareness that tomorrow won’t be any better and that, no, even all the willpower in the world won’t suffice.

But the true face of invisible chronic illness – so hard to represent – is the one that, every day, while crumbling, looks up and – through gritted teeth – says: “Everything’s fine.”
And yet, “you’d never ask someone with a broken leg to run a marathon.”

Diminished in the eyes of others, the invisible pain and their distant gazes erase me. I slowly disappear. Who am I?

I don’t expect empathy, but I long for awareness and, therefore, acknowledgment: because if we don’t seem sick enough, we are sick enough to live a life half-lived.

 

Francesca, 30 years old (invisible for 13)

 

 

 

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