Perhaps I’m being too open. But it’s too late. I’m ready to ramble!
It’s 8AM. I have not slept. My whole body hurts so bad. Every inch of me. Swollen and achy and inflamed and burning and stiff with my fingers locked in awkward positions as I type. In other places uncontrollable spasms twitch to the tick of an invisible clock. I’m stuck in me. I can’t get out. Help is not coming. No pill or man can lift me up. I look for God. I still look for God.
I’m under so much stress with the holidays. Memories. They fill me. My whole self is consumed by them. I cry more than I smile. I cry now. I take more medicine. It doesn’t help. Nothing helps. My chronic physical illness is only intensified by my constant anxiety and depression. My constant anxiety and depression intensifies my physical pain caused by my illness. Can you see my vicious cycle?
I just want to go to Disney World, and I can’t. Disney makes everything better. Trust me. When I was little and on chemo I would go all the time. I’d be a princess for a little while. It’s a magical place where I’d forget the pain I was in. No one hurt me there, either.
I had an argument with my mother. It didn’t help things at all. She doesn’t understand what depression is and what anxiety is. She mentioned Disney. As if. I’ve tried to explain so many times. I read her my poetry. We go to therapy. It’s to no avail. It all really started when she was talking, out of nowhere, about a topic that triggers my PTSD (and she knows this topic brings back bad thoughts). All the stuff I bottle up came pouring out. I get so angry. I get out of control. At times like this I hate her so much for blaming me for things that I was a victim of. She said it was by accident. I believe her. Even so, it hurts. I hate that she suggested it was my fault I was abused by a man.. It wasn’t my fault. I know it wasn’t my fault. It wasn’t my fault. He was physically stronger than me, and older. It wasn’t my fault. I tell myself that, over and over, even though I still feel a shame that’s deeper than my physical pain, my depression, and anxiety. The shame intensifies my pain, depression, and anxiety. Can you see my vicious cycle?
I refuse to go for any more brain scans or spine scans or optic nerve evaluations. I don’t want to know how my body is failing me. I don’t want any more chemotherapy. Not this Christmas. Christmas is bad enough. And the treatment is not helping. Or at least, not enough for me. After I go, I feel so sick. I hate you, body! I hate how you trapped me in you. Even in my dreams I feel pain. I dream bad things. My days haunt me when my eyes are closed and the lights are off.
The only good has been you as of late, my new artist friends and subscribers. My work has garnered nearly 500 views in a little over a week. It’s more than I could have ever dreamed. Every comment, every email, every “like”, makes me feel a little less alone and a little more connected… even though I never met any of you. My words have met you. And I am my words. I am my poetry. There is no facade. If anything, I’m too honest and often fear judgement. Some people out there understand me. And for that, I feel I still hold a value. For that I still feel like a person who contributes to society. I’m not just a young woman dependent on modern medicine. I have thought and I connect with strangers literally all over the world in countries I’ve never been to. Bangladesh, Thailand, Finland, Ghana, and more. My words, me, have met people in places I could never ever travel due to my physical limitations.
Thank you ever so much for making me feel less alone. Thank you.
Never forget to comment so I know you’re there.