The Weight of Time and the Pull of Solitude

I Was Supposed to Be Dead by Now.

Six years ago, I wrote the blog post, “Shaking and Alone: My Life with Tourette Syndrome“, a reflection of a life most never saw, a life hidden behind sarcasm and brief bursts of presence. It still gets a surprising number of views each day, and with each click, I wonder… are they trying to understand? Are they looking for a glimpse into something they’ve never known, or are they searching for themselves within my words?

It shocked people who thought they knew me. But how could they? I have always been the loudest in the room, the quick-witted one, the storyteller who keeps the party alive for the fleeting moments I exist in their world. That isn’t an act. That is me. But so is the version of me that sits in silence for the majority of my days, wrapped in solitude, more observer than participant. I am both, and neither tells the whole story.

People said things like, You don’t have to live that way. As if life is a simple choice. As if I could just step outside of myself and rewrite the wiring, erase the patterns built over decades. As if they understood the exhaustion of explaining a life that doesn’t quite fit within the lines of what is expected.

Tourette’s and the Weight of the Unseen

Most of the time, my tics go unnoticed. The muscles tighten, the movements held back just enough, the careful restraint a skill honed over years of necessity. But every so often, the energy builds, an undercurrent impossible to contain. For weeks at a time, it’s as if my body revolts against me, demanding attention I refuse to give. Those are the days when just existing takes more effort than I have to give, when the sheer force of trying to appear normal drains whatever reserves I had left.

I was diagnosed young, my name written into the pages of medical charts filled with conditions, speculations, and the unspoken concern of doctors who weren’t sure what to make of me. Twice as a kid, I found myself in hospital rooms meant for the lost, the ones teetering on an edge no one else could see. People like to say things get better. Maybe they do. Or maybe they just change, shifting into something different but never quite disappearing.

Back to Me Not Supposed to Be Alive at 45

Between the weight of a restless mind and the inevitability of a weak heart, I shouldn’t still be here. Kelly men don’t live long. Our names are written in stone far too soon. Heart disease lurks like an old ghost, waiting its turn. And the mind? It carries its own burdens, ones that don’t show up on medical charts but leave their own scars just the same.

If you were a betting person when I was a teenager, the safe money would have been on me not making it this far. But here I am, still breathing, still walking the tightrope between existing and truly living. And yet, I can’t shake the feeling that I am not long for this world. I’ve felt on borrowed time for a while now, and with each passing year, that feeling only cements itself further.

Maybe that’s why I push myself, why I try to do more, be more, squeeze as much as I can from the time I have. But the shaking-and-alone lifestyle presents its own barriers. I find ways around them sometimes, carve out moments of connection, but getting through? That’s a different challenge entirely.

The Paradox of a Quiet Life

A quiet life is not an empty one. My days slip by in familiar patterns, the hum of a coffee shop, a book cracked open on my lap, brief conversations that never overstay their welcome. I live in the margins of noise, dipping in and out as needed, a visitor to the world of the constantly connected.

I have told myself, time and again, that I should want more. More company, more adventure, more proof that I am living. But I know myself. I know the exhaustion that comes with too much, the toll of pushing past the limits I have spent a lifetime learning. So I linger here, in this strange middle ground, not entirely cut off, not entirely immersed.

I am still shaking. Still alone. Not searching for a way out, but instead, still finding my way through. Perhaps this is exactly where I am meant to be, set in place by hands far greater than my own. Maybe the stillness is not just something I endure, but something divinely appointed, a space where I am being shaped in ways I do not yet understand. 

I walk this quiet path, not with despair, but with trust, trust that even in solitude, I am not unseen, and even in the silence, I am not unheard.