Awkward

I haven’t been in public much the last decade or so,

my social interaction freezing in a lost tableau.

When I did get back out there, I was thinking of it wrong.

But I should know that nothing stays the same for quite that long.

Since I have lived with chronic illness, nothing is the same.

At times, I do not recognize this person I became.

The changes were involuntary, yet I can’t go back.

So, helplessly, I’ve seen my life careening off its track.

The Sick Me is so different than the Healthy Me had been,

which means I oft feel awkward, even here, in my own skin.

But being out in public is far worse than when alone.

When out there, I must live as though my woes are unbeknown.

Here, in my home, I don’t pretend that I am not in pain.

I don’t pretend my illnesses aren’t clouding up my brain.

In fact, I don’t pretend at all. That’s why I’m staying home,

and working out my feelings in another silly poem.

Advertisements

Exercises In Futility

No position I can find will make it go away.

Nothing I can do will make it right.

I just have to watch the clock push hours into day…

through the long, excruciating night.

Sitting doesn’t help at all, nor does it to lie down.

Standing up is quite atrocious, too.

Walking is a bad idea, just like all the rest,

leaving me with nothing else to do.

Doubled over in a ball, I try to soothe myself,

huddled with a blanket ‘round my back.

Rocking to and fro’ I wonder, will it ever end?

Hoping till my brain and heart just…crack.

Should I, to the ER, go, and put myself in line?

I will have to stay and wait my turn.

Triage nurses don’t think I should get to skip ahead

when I don’t have a gunshot wound or burn.

When I get to see the doctor, he comes in resolved.

I know that he, first, made up his mind.

He’s decided I just want a source of heavy drugs,

sure he knows I’m of the addict-kind.

I can see it in the way he stands reviewing charts,

looking at the clipboard he brought in.

Glancing up and over just a bit from time to time.

Convincing him’s a battle I can’t win.

If I could count up the times I’ve tried to start anew,

I’d use all my fingers and my toes,

searching for the doctor who can conquer chronic pain,

one who doesn’t judge and presuppose.

One who doesn’t promise his procedure’s gonna work

before he’s grasped the level of my pain.

One who doesn’t send the message: it’s all in your head,

who treats me like I’ve simply gone insane.

Even on the days that I acknowledge are my best,

constant ache pervades my every breath.

Like sandpaper, coarse in grit, the pain rubs raw my soul,

leaving me romanticizing death.

Chronic Illness Blues

Nowadays, we’re everywhere: sickies who look fine.

With a glance, it seems that there’s no reason we should whine.

But if the world could have a trial living in our shoes,

they would find, most certainly, they had the chronic blues.

Friends and loved ones try and try, but never understand

the challenges and energy our illnesses demand.

It’s because we look just fine. They cannot see what’s wrong.

Only test results can prove we’ve been sick all along.

It’s hard for us, who lead sick lives, to say we’re not depressed.

We know the hell will never end, “not terminal,” at best.

You can’t forget it, any day; you never get a break.

It goes on while you’re sleeping, it’s here when you’re awake.

Decades pass, the illness lasts, and yet we trudge on through.

People sometimes say, “You’re brave.” But what else can we do?

Illnesses and hospitals, insurance and blood,

urine samples, EKGs, and feeling, still, like crud…

plastic tubing, IV kits, patient charts and scrubs,

pumps and poles and stools on wheels, and purple, nitrile gloves,

pharmacies and sharps containers, clipboards, tape, gauze pads,

waiting rooms, referrals, too, and still you’re feeling bad…

ugly gowns they make us wear to access us with ease,

meaning when we do stand up, we’re flapping in the breeze….

The space they leave on intake forms is laughable at best.

I always have to find more space so I can list the rest.

Those mere four lines aren’t adequate to splay my sordid past.

I require plenty o’ room for the horrors I’ve amassed.

I never know from week to week how good my health will be,

so many times the best I do is plan to wait and see.

I don’t want to be the one who ruins family plans.

And if they want to still go out, I would understand.

But they won’t, which means I feel a guilt (that I don’t need).

So I suggest it every time and someday will succeed.

But though I get frustrated, and I wish they understood,

I hope they never will (the way that only sickies could).

Tomorrow I may find that I can’t get up out of bed.

My symptoms overlap and get all jumbled in my head.

I try hard to keep them straight, the things to ask my doc.

I’ll see him soon: tomorrow, well, that is, if I can walk.

Life for us is day to day, filled with good and bad.

It makes me much more grateful for the healthful times I’ve had.

Enabling The Future

A Global Network Of Passionate Volunteers Using 3D Printing To Give The World A "Helping Hand."

Everywhere Once

An adult's guide to long-term travel

the poet's billow

a resource for moving poetry

James Windale

The official blog of James Windale

Shadow and Clay

Adventures in Attempted Authoring

Writing Madness

blog of author charlotte cyprus

Catpaws Cafe

Random musings from my virtual fountain pen

Always Rebecca

A Mathematician attempting to swim in the ocean of writing.

Shanan Winters

Interpreter of Inspiration

La Belle Epunque

The Blog of Artist, Poet and Author, Alira Alomien Rosi

Pickled Words

a place for pickles, a place for words

To Tilt With Windmills

countless worlds at your fingertips

Red and the Big Bad Wolf

The story of me - Red living with Myasthenia Gravis or the 'Big Bad Wolf' as I prefer to call it

Wrong Side of the Glass

My Journey Through an Undefined Illness

One Fierce Mama

Unapologetic, uncensored, opinionated, and a mother.

Autoimmune Warrior

Life with Invisible Illnesses

the myasthenia kid

Life with possibly undiagnosed myasthenia gravis, diagnosed severe autonomic dysfunction and ehlers danlos syndrome

Experimental Fiction

"Come with me, and you'll be, in a world of pure imagination" Willy Wonka, 1971

Myasthenia Gravis Blog

MG Mind, Body & Soul Blog

%d bloggers like this: