Reader Report – They printed it in Comic Sans. My life is not a joke.
It came on a Tuesday.
White envelope. Bright yellow sticker.
A smiley face. Winking.
Like we were playing a game.
Inside: four pages of professionally worded rejection.
Comic Sans.
Like my pain was a birthday invitation.
They said I didn’t meet the criteria.
Not broken enough. Not visibly enough.
Not consistently enough.
They didn’t ask about the days I couldn’t walk.
Or the hours I lose, dissociating in grocery aisles.
They didn’t see the bruises on the inside.
They said “thank you for your application.”
As if I’d applied for a job.
As if this was something I wanted.
As if being unable to function was a hobby I took up for fun.
The sticker on the envelope felt like a final shove.
An emoji on the end of a death sentence.
A balloon tied to a lead anchor.
I imagined the office clerk sealing the envelope.
Peeling the sticker from the roll.
Pressing it onto the paper like a stamp of joy.
Was it policy?
Was it a joke?
Or were they trying to make themselves feel better
about telling a human being to go suffer more quietly?
This wasn’t just a “no.”
This was a mockery.
Of what I’ve endured.
Of what I need.
Of who I am.
You can’t Photoshop dignity back onto someone
after you’ve laughed in their direction.
The sticker went in the trash.
The letter didn’t.
It’s still taped to my wall.
A reminder: they smiled
when they said no.
