Weighed down by complications – you see, the amount of baggage I carry surpasses my storage capacity; and despite attempts to simplify, paranoia tends to my bathroom routines, and no amount of persuasion can appease her suspicions; and the majority of my contents have been accumulated by my father’s business, and not really mine to unload, although I try, his tyranny still haunts me; and well, anything new that I start has to be protected from the familial bouts of insanity; and that is why I just want to pack my bags and get out of here, and be a mother to my children; but it’s complicated.
Should I escape these shackles – manage to re-surface, swim despite this weakened condition against the currents of disability, find myself once again on the solid grounds of civilization – will I be embraced with cheers of victory, or slotted into some back room, reserved for the fallen, spoken to in hushed tones, forever handled at arms length, an object to be feared?
And, if I manage to fight these bonds that for so long have threatened to annihilate, will I have the bravery to face the calling that once defined me, shake off the cobwebs of disorientation, defy the certainty of unpreparedness, draw from the well of past experiences and rise to a new battle, proving the validity of my return?
Or, with freedom, do I look to opportunity, clear the slate of former ambitions, rewrite the pages of my destiny, embrace an attitude of rebirth, decide to relinquish the sword, cut my losses and redefine a new, gentler way of being in the world, less dependent on a system which undoubtedly propelled this descent in the first place?
(My art, entitled Abandoned Forest, acrylic. This poem first appeared in 2016, when after two years bedridden with Myalgic Encephalomyelitis, I pondered what would become of me. As part of a support group now, I recognize this same struggle in others plagued by chronic illness. Personally, I eventually found my answer in the third stanza.)
One Woman's Quest 