chronic illness – Page 3 – One Woman's Quest

Unwanted

Like a wanted woman,
I hide in public places

One step ahead of recognition,
ignoring friendly gestures,
leaving confusion in my wake

I’m tired of this game,
the pretence – long only
to turn myself in

tear away the mask
and announce
my presence

but I’m afraid –
could lose it all –
career, reputation

all for a crime I did not commit.

Oh wait…I already did –
just like a wanted woman…

(Image from personal collection. My images, some with poetry are now available through Society6. I’d love it if you’d check us out and leave feedback.)

Ride Along With Me 2

Passenger, I am –
delegated to back seat –
input seldom asked for,
even less appreciated.

I ride along.

Passenger, I am –
at best can only speculate
about direction – limited
sight lines here in the back.

I am not driving.

Had a driver once,
motivated and self-assured –
could sit back and relax –
until his mistress climbed in.

Who invited her?

Driver #2 is handsome,
but lacks directions, so
no one is paying attention.

Others ride along too.

There’s a high school dropout,
who likes to pick his parents pockets,
and get boozed up on Friday nights.

How did he get here?

Ride along, if you wish, but be warned –
this vehicle is outdated, and likely unsafe –
we’ll just have to squish together.

They don’t make ‘em like this anymore.

Oh yeah, my crazy sister is aboard too,
Or maybe it is me, ‘cause I swear
I saw the ghost of another –
bent on haunting me along the way.

Probably a good thing I’m not driving.

Night is falling, and we stop for gas,
and the neon lights remind me –
if I’ m going to make a break,
it’d best be now.

Or, I could find a new driver.

What I put God at the wheel?
What if I said: God, give me direction?
Would I have to sit up straighter and pay attention?
Would the adulteress and the sloth have to leave?

Would my vehicle become a golden chariot,
powered by horses with wings of white?
And would we fly above the obstacles,
straight to the Promised Land?

Fantasy, unfortunately –
for now, I’ll remain back here,
until life restores vitality,
and my head is clear again.

Then I’ll park this old vehicle.

And get a new model with GPS.

(I’m revisiting old posts, editing, and re-introducing some of them. Ride Along With Me was written in November of 2014, six months after being bedridden with ME. It was inspired by a dream, and understandably, represents a woman who has lost everything, trying to make sense of life. I thought it is actually quite fun, and may have a wider application, so I resubmit it here.)

Tired

so tired…

the heaviness of slumber
settles on me like a straight jacket –
no point resisting…

was it a poisoned apple
that struck me so –
or is this exhaustion
emblematic…

of what….
a soul aspiring to flight
weighted down by sensitivity…

an ego tied to ideals
no more salient than balloons
whose once inflated bodies
now pollute the landscape…

I am withered…

lifeless…

breath shallow…

pulse irregular…

cursing the elusiveness of sleep…

suspended in a tortuous limbo,
mocked by vitality,
scorned by ambition,
loathed by the hale…

is there purpose
to this perpetual cycle…
a message
carved within the walls
of this fleshy tomb…
cryptic whispers
buried deep beneath
the hardening layers of fog?

no strength here
to decipher riddles…
encumbered by lassitude,
like an iron blanket
smothering desire…

even weeds will push
through concrete barriers
follow the sun’s rays
to find life…

why then can’t I…

…so tired….

(Tired originally appeared 04/17. I submit it here again for Daily Addictions prompt mock.)

No Race Today

Left leg
on strike,
brain
disengaged,
energy
scrounging
for re-charge
coming up empty

Body
derelict –
this illness
sensual agony –
forgive
my silences,
any absences

Spirit
like a racehorse
strains against
the reins
too taut,
hungry
to feel
the wind
in its stride,
breath
freedom.

Gate is closed.

(The challenge of living with chronic illness is to maintain balance. There is a disconnect between what the body is capable of and what the spirit aspires to accomplish. Today, body wins. Thank you to Sammi Cox for the Weekend Writing Prompt: derelict; to Fandango for sensual; and to Daily Addictions for agony – all words that help convey this experience.)

Chronic

Mitochondria,
research says,
holds the key
to this malaise –
DNA failing to generate
required energy

I push against
facts, strive
to hoist
this stricken body
from the tedious mire –

fail,
plunge,
succumb
await renewal
of momentum,
push again

a hopeless cycle.

(Penned for DVerse’s Quadrille #59, prompt: cycle. Thank you to kim881 for hosting.)

A Call for Harmony

6:30 a.m. alarm sounds.
“Time to wake up!” Compliance commands.
“Just a little longer,” Sensibility suggests.
Guilt, like an incessantly annoying child
tugs on Conscience:
“Come on; there’s lots to do!”

Body does not respond.

Sleep wins
and dreams come:
homeless,
relying on friends,
no food,
backed up toilet,
children’s wide eyes fearfully imploring:
When is this all going to end?
Guilt propels a return to consciousness.

8:25 a.m.
“Up and at ’em! There’s a good Soldier!”
Compliance attempts to be chipper.
“There’s really other more important than rest,”
Sensibility insists.
“Can’t lie in bed all day!” Guilt counters.

Body is MIA.

Dreams surface again:
setting up house in a thoroughfare,
people coming and going, oblivious
co-workers indifferent,
eyes scolding: convicting
Guilt mutates to rage,
Body wakes up choking, gasping
reaches for the rescue inhaler
sucks in, desperate for air.

11:11 a.m.
“That’s it! Up you get!”
“No! No! Rest is needed!”
“The day is wasted! There’s no going back!

“SILENCE!” A new voice emerges.

A collective intake of breath.

“Breathe; just breathe.”

A unified sigh.

“And breathe again.”

Tempers cool, and emotions begin to settle.

“What’s going on?” Guilt wonders.
“Just trying to stick to routine,” Compliance explains.
“It’s always been this way.”
“But she’s ill now,” Sensibility adds; “concessions are necessary.”

“Breathe,” the voice asserts.
All sigh again.
“Just be in the stillness of the moment…”

Stillness has no voice.
Her language is compassion and infinite,
infinite wisdom.

“…and surrender.”

Compliance sobs, releasing enormous obligation.
Sensibility gratefully releases burden of responsibility,
and Guilt – well Guilt is little – happily snuggles up
to Unconditional Love.

“There, there,” Voice soothes; “isn’t harmony so much better?”

Body concurs and rises out of bed.

(Today’s prompt challenges us to look at the differing parts of self and start a dialogue. I decided to rework a poem I wrote in 2014 when suffering from severe M.E. Dealing with a debilitating illness brought all the inner voices to the surface, and I struggled with the emotional and psychological aspects of having my life shattered. A Call for Harmony attempts to illustrate the struggle.)

Open To Healing

Open to healing –
delve into the subconscious
create a space for inspiration.

Ignore limited capabilities –
no offerings are meager –
enter with pure intentions.

Embrace new starts
have faith in ability
be spurred into action.

The Self holds the answers,
creative expression is the key.
No expertise required.

(I first wrote this in August of 2015, a year and a half after being diagnosed with ME/CFS. This was likely the lowest point of my disease – it is encouraging to look back and realize how strong my spirit was back then despite my condition.)

Dear Legs

May have been remiss
in expressing appreciation
how you carried me
all these years – stride
confident, pace swift,
head turning grace –

we wobble now, you and I,
uncertainty in our strength
stilted soldiers forging against
a tide of contrary currents
tentative, yet determined

visions of better days amuse
memories of nights spent dancing
getting down with disco, and
days spent swimming laps
prepping for provincial meets

we were champions, you and I
beauties taking on the world
by leaps, participants in a race
against an indefinable foe
believers in a destiny that
was not defined by limitations

I may have been remiss
in expressing my appreciation
hope you now know that
each step to me is precious,
that every time you hold me
upright my gratitude is sincere

there is world yet to discover
and time at hand, and you and I,
dreams intact, still burn with a passion,
hear the beating of an inner drum
rhythms calling us to dance –
should life give us another chance.

(Image: bareuk.co.uk)

Resignation

Tried to drop in, visit the past –
hoped to resurrect old passions –
all that remains are intellectual
reserves, in need of costumes
to enact a play written without me;
I’d help out but have neither
the resources nor the physical
ability to lower or raise myself
to such expectations.

It’s all so unnatural, this pandering
to an ideal, this self defined by roles
and education: this soulless state.

So I caught a train out of there –
boarded before I realized
that in my already off-balance state
the movement would throw me,
fell, cried, met with further coldness
should have taken a bus,
buried myself amidst the nameless
masses, too anxious to signal stop,
would shamelessly ride to the end
sobbing even harder, be expelled
by a driver, hardened by the reek
of human neglect, find myself
at the corner of what was
and a swift passage to nowhere.

Better to accept this stranded isolation –
nearby places out of reach – too weak,
too frail to stand – this place that is home.

Invitation Anxiety

Social invitations sing
of acceptance, delightful
opportunity to intermingle

for the hale, the rehearsed,
practiced in the choreography
of wardrobe appropriateness

disability cringes – NO!
contrived behaviour suitable
for enacting a script too stressing

compromised memory can’t learn
lines – intellect impaired, not
improv-friendly – RETREAT!

isolation a recurring sentence,
illness the jailor; except anxiety
has replaced physical challenge

only Will holds option’s key –
attire no excuse: tossed together
clothing apt gear for gatherings

pretense overcomes stage fright
a worthwhile role for any story,
especially one notably improved.

(Image: bestfriendsforfrosting.com)