Fragility blindsides –
I am woman.
Courageous, some say –
a sentiment beyond my reach
having not chosen this state.
Fragility is pervasive –
body reduced to miniscule fibers,
stretched, torn, bordering
Overwhelmed, mind obsesses –
will neither organize
nor let go…
If only I could let go…
I am weeping
Weeping from frustration –
immediate impossibility –
Unwilling to weep for totality of loss –
it is beyond me.
Illness is regarded
There is no equality for the disabled
stripped of busy-ness –
renders me as any other
A soul yearning for a meaningful existence.
Maybe illness is the great equalizer.
(The Same, But Broken was first written in December of 2014, when I suffered from severe Myalgic Encephalomyelitis. It is revised here.)
The body has a voice –
not silent, nor harsh –
it is a knowing.
When ego drives hard –
demanding to be heard –
Block it out!
Let your body speak –
waves of understanding,
gut feelings, truth.
Logic has no place here –
book learning seldom serves
the needs of the soul –
Set it aside.
Listen to your body –
that pounding in the chest,
that sudden surge of vertigo.
Intuition is cellular –
ancient, ancestral instinct;
trust the voice within.
(I originally wrote this in October of 2014, while contemplating how I let myself become so ill. Admittedly, I had for years ignored my body’s signals. Be well all.)
Disability covets isolation, this
stripped-back, box-like state.
Rustic serenity, with breathing
room would be preferable, but
nostalgia creeps in and lack of
self-worth leaves the door open
to unwanted visitors, phantoms
of former torments, nondescript
invaders targeting the lonely,
misconstruing lack of health
for neediness, preying on weak-
hearted, presuming incapability.
I am unwell, not unwanted, effort
to protest ignored, I grow wary of
fellow travelers, am vandalized by
nightly attacks, attempt to reach
out, aim for strength, logic, clarity,
dial-up past abuse instead, cannot
fathom the purpose of unsolicited
persecution, grasping at isolation.