“There is no activism without despair, no despair without hope. Despair can be as powerful an engine for change as hope.”
Finding Hope in Despair — Borderless
Finding Hope in Despair — my article in Borderless
Tag: #illness
Weigh Scale
Do you hear it?
Relief sounds like
a girl’s slip
a bird’s wing
your eye lashes fluttering
against your blushing cheek
Do you hear it?
Suffering sounds like
cloth pulled by stick across dirt floor
chalk pressed violent into board
fingers opening blouses raggedly
your chest bone protrudes
more than the year before
Do you hear it?
Felis catus
I didn’t care as much as the blood on the snow implied
it was after all just a horror show
you, with your nimble ways of
poking holes in my armor
you, with your kind smile and sharp knife
twisting screw
letting good drain out with bad
till meaning held no color.
I didn’t blame you at first
it’s a fact … some bite
they are taught to by pain
it’s a refuge, a coping mechanism, a
twist and writhe in slim net
of sanity and pathology
that’s all they know
the feral in their fur
if you try to be kind
they will purr
then go ahead and bite you.
I took my bleeding hand
stuck it in my mouth
to prevent saying the things I wanted to
Then I remembered all the little ways
you’d been before, the bare indifference
how I’d tried. Why had I kept on trying?
What possesses us to be kind
to broken things whose disapointment
in themselves turns to savagery?
At least it gave you an opportunity
to use that tenderness against me
I did feel a fool until I realized, yeah …
maybe you were my enemy all along
in that slow icing way you left me feeling emptied
which may say something about me
and how I should learn to try less
I’m sure you’d say; “nobody else can make you feel bad
without giving your permission.”
But I think I will disagree
that’s a passive-aggressive crock … Psych101
it’s your fault … no one else’s
with your holier-than-thou certainty
convinced you’re above us all
I walked away from the snow and the blood
a little cross at myself for not remembering
you can’t hand feed
wild cats.
eventually even the hypochondriac will be right
odd for the child
to fear drowning
when his life now is so long
stretching like taut ribbon in sun
he imagines like plain moths who drown themselves
in light emanating from dark
his own lifeless body buoyant on chlorinated pool
why he thinks of his death is anyone’s guess
perhaps the morbid humor of an intelligent mind
or the broken mosaic of life, beginning its downward cycle
once he asked his father, if the river levies bust
will I know I am dead before I am drowned or
will I wake in heaven first?
His father, a man who only worried about
whether his mistress was going to leave him for a younger man
did not spend time assuaging the boys fears
and he grew into a frightened soul who possessed
no mistress to sooth his night terrors
eventually even the hypochondriac will be right
maybe not this year
as she palpitates her breast for the forth time
crossing nervous fingers over heart, half prayer half search
malignancy her code red, flashing with every terrorizing headline
who invented social media? she mumbles beneath her breath
it was so much easier when we didn’t have access to all the maladies, we’ll one day die from!
Her hands cramp in late Winter cold, immediately she thinks
MS, MD, Fibromyalgia, the beginnings of CJD, maybe Parkinson’s
isn’t that a tremor? Or just too much coffee?
Her jittering nerves remind her, we are unable to compute
the exact day, hour, minute of expiry
all we know is our eventual death is an assured event
it’s the torment of those who are self-aware yet still ignorant
spinning in place, every migraine a brain tumor, every
sudden sharp pain a sign of pancreatic cancer, when a friend
discovers he has Multiple Myeloma (and he never touched asbestos his wife decries!)
she flicks through medical journals online searching for similarity
it’s not her wish to die, but a desire to live, control fate
keeping her on false tender hooks like owl without prey.
His life has been one of quiet dread, each day he inspects
the parts of him most likely to give out, checking his irregular heartbeat
the soft pounding of worry causing it to skip, feeling for swollen glands
skin cancers, lumps and bumps different from the day before
he knows his is an obsessive ritual, even as it soothes imagined
terrors, he sees the absurdity of living in fear bound to a wheel
perpetuated by hours spent researching ways of expiring
did you know you can develop throat cancer from invisible HPV
who knew love was such a sentence? He tells his eye-rolling neighbor.
If he counted the hours he took from his life
contemplating how he will die, when, what it will resemble
it’s quite mad
yet when he is lying in his childhood bed alone
impending dread crawling up his flannel spine
all he can hear are the waves calling
and then, a strange longing in him occurs
urging him to be done with bloody charades
join the onslaught and be carried out to sea
along with every child’s nightmare
and the stifled hiss of adults pressing their knuckles
closely to anguished mouths
for the pale mint waiting room seems
entirely too silent
an earie unsettled fog about it
waiting …
The ingratitude of the well
Inspired by the incredible Cordelia Feldman and her novel In Bloom, for sale now. For World Cancer Day.
It would be easy to say
I haven’t been stricken because I couldn’t cope with it
there would be no one, I have learned, if I were;
not a flower garden, or brothers with curry, or kind lipsticked nurses
socialized healthcare, or odd private room
there would not be a mom bathing or a dad talking
about vegetable garden and the latest episode of Silent Witness
who could really cope?
Even as I say this, knowing the avocado heart of it
I also know I could be stricken tomorrow, or already
as all of us could
(as all of us could)
and privately in a fat second
(like when you see a train wreck and you process a hundred thoughts all at once)
I know I have my will written (handwritten, badly, not rubber stamped)
ready to mail to fate should it come.
When I got sick, though not C.A.N.C.E.R.S.I.C.K., nevertheless I really planned
taking another way out
in my head, thoughts of how bad it had become, lead to imaginings
of suicide and how savage that is to hear
for someone who is dying and does not want to die
the ingratitude of the well
these thoughts fly around me
like bees unwilling yet to sting
my heart is heavy for her
wondering selfishly what I would do
had I the same burden
praying to an empty sky, for that not to happen
superstitious that even the mere wish not to be sick
evokes it
as if fate were laughing and throwing darts
at fleeing people
so helpless, we sink our teeth into projects
wind up time like a ball of yarn
knit it into shapes we can understand
all while keeping horror at bay
the imagined car crash, the loved one never returning home
a cancer growing inside like a whistle
on a hurtling train
it is easy to not find time for empathy
or to feel, it is too close, too raw, too impossible
to process
most of all I think of her grace
how she can appreciate something like a child might
I think of her humor
how she’s had me folded on the floor laughing at the
sheer fucking brilliance of her
I am proud in ways that hurt
she’s everything I am not and she’s also
deeply human
if one person says ‘I’m sorry for your loss‘ I will
scream; “She’s not gone yet! She’s never
going to be gone, that’s just not how
she rolls. Don’t underestimate her
don’t think you own her anymore
than you own your own life.“
Those platitudes are all we sometimes have
we mean them more
than scrolling past someone’s bad news
crossing ourselves, as we step over graves
one day slated to be ours
we side step death like the dancers we are
thinking we’re somehow avoiding
something born before we were
and I focus and think of her
how if I could show her my feelings
they would be in movement, in laughter
in light, spinning like an electric waterfall
like her spinning class, where just for a moment
she is that girl beneath the hot trance lights of
the 90’s and I am dancing along side her
as the earth holds us both, alive
despite any ‘support’ she has
which I am more glad of than anything
though what support does against terror?
I cannot lend a description to
my own failings in the courage department
planning my demise when the first meteorite hit
although I read we use meteorite and meteor and astroid
interchangably
and they are actually very different
with only the burning of the sun
in common to collease
their strength as potential planet killers
my math teacher used to say
a morbid mind will only bring sorrow
of course she was right
in her Laura Ashley dungerees
that would now be worth $300 on Ebay
a funny ole world my grandma prosthelytized
nipping at the ever full box of wine in the kitchen
clipping her rose garden when ABBA wasn’t
sufficient to propel demons
I get it
I really do
there’s only avoidance really
we can’t look into the sun too long
we’ll lose our sight before
we’ve made our way back from the garden
or maybe
we’ll stay, our heads upturned
soaking in the rays
To dearest Cordelia, I adore you.
Please consider purchasing Cordelia’s first novel In Bloom, it is magnificent.
Submit your work to these two anthologies
BUT YOU DON’T LOOK SICK: THE REAL LIFE ADVENTURES OF FIBRO BITCHES, LUPUS WARRIORS, AND OTHER SUPER HEROES BATTLING INVISIBLE ILLNESS
AND
THROUGH THE LOOKING GLASS: REFLECTING ON MADNESS AND CHAOS WITHIN
Indie Blu(e) Publishing is thrilled to announce that we will be starting off 2021 with sister anthologies, But You Don’t Look Sick: The Real Life Adventures of Fibro Bitches, Lupus Warriors, and other Super Heroes Battling Invisible Illness AND Through The Looking Glass: Reflecting on Madness and Chaos Within.
The focus of But You Don’t Look Sick: The Real Life Adventures of Fibro Bitches, Lupus Warriors, and other Super Heroes Battling Invisible Illness will be on writing and art from those living with a chronic but invisible physical illness or disability, such as fibromyalgia, lupus, multiple sclerosis, cancer, digestive disorders, chronic fatigue syndrome, diabetes, migraine headache, dysautonomia, etc.
The focus of Through The Looking Glass: Reflecting on Madness and Chaos Within will be on writing and art from those who are living, or have struggled with, mental illness such as mood disorders, anxiety disorders, eating disorders, personality disorders, post-traumatic stress disorder, or psychotic Disorders.
Writers and artists are welcome to submit to either, or both, of these anthologies as applicable to your lived experience.
Given the high volume of submissions that we are expecting, we ask you to follow the submission guidelines as closely. If you are submitting to both anthologies, please send your submission in two separate emails. We will begin to review all submissions after January 1, 2021.
Please note that we are not able to offer monetary compensation or free print copies to contributors to these anthologies; however, all contributors will receive a PDF copy of the anthology they are published in. Indie Blu(e) Publishing has prioritized the accessibility of our titles and providing an outlet for artists and writers who might not otherwise get published over profits since we first launched in the fall of 2018. Keeping 400 and 500 page anthologies affordable globally in a pandemic is challenging.
But You Don’t Look Sick: The Real Life Adventures of Fibro Bitches, Lupus Warriors, and other Super Heroes Battling Invisible Illness
Anthology Submission Guidelines
SUBMISSIONS ACCEPTED: December 1, 2020 through December 31, 2020
SUBMIT TO: IndieBluSubmissions@gmail.com
SUBJECT LINE: But You Don’t Look Sick Submission
SUBMISSION FORMATTING GUIDELINES
- The maximum number of pieces for submission per writer/artist is six (6).
- Writing may include poetry, prose, short fiction, essay, and/or creative nonfiction
- Individual pieces of writing should not exceed 1,000 words
- Writing should be submitted as a single Word attachment to your submission email. PDFs are the acceptable alternative if you do not have access to Word.
- Please use either 12 point Arial or Times Roman font with 1.15 line spacing.
- Individual pieces of writing in your Word document should be titled, and separated by Page Breaks (not hard returns). A page break is achieved by using Control+Enter.
- Special formatting is strongly discouraged. Bold, italic, and multiple font sizes in a single piece are acceptable.
- Please title all attachments starting with your first name,last name.
- The exception to this is if you design your submission as a ‘camera ready’ JPG or PNG image that we can import into our publication as we would a photo. In that case, you may use any formatting you wish, but the image must be crisp, 300 DPI, and able to be reproduced clearly in black and white. If in doubt, please contact us at IndieBluSubmissions@gmail.com before submitting. Your ‘camera ready’ writing must be accompanied by the text in a Word (or PDF) version.
- Artwork submitted for the Anthology must be crisp, 300 DPI, and able to be reproduced clearly in black and white
- You will be notified if your work is accepted. Please do not consider non- acceptance as any diminishment of your experience, but as with any publishing venture, we must try to fit the individual pieces together into a strong whole.
- All contributors to the anthology will receive a PDF copy of the finished book
BIOGRAPHY: All submissions must include a professional biography and cannot be adjusted once submitted. Bios should be 75 words or less long and may include your social media links.
You will be contacted directly through your email when your work is safely received for submission. If your work is accepted for the anthology, you will receive an agreement letter that you need to complete fully, sign and return to us within 10 days.
PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED WORK We will accept previously published work but must have written permission by the previous publisher attached with your submission if they retain rights to your work.
If you own the copyright, your permission and the date and title of the previous publisher must be included at the bottom of your submission.
Through The Looking Glass: Reflecting on Madness and Chaos Within
Anthology Submission Guidelines
SUBMISSIONS ACCEPTED: December 15, 2020 through January 15, 2021
SUBMIT TO: IndieBluSubmissions@gmail.com
SUBJECT LINE: Through The Looking Glass Submission
SUBMISSION FORMATTING GUIDELINES
- The maximum number of pieces for submission per writer/artist is four (4).
- Writing may include poetry, prose, short fiction, essay, and/or creative nonfiction
- Individual pieces of writing should not exceed 1,000 words
- Writing should be submitted as a single Word attachment to your submission email. PDFs are the acceptable alternative if you do not have access to Word.
- Please use either 12 point Arial or Times Roman font with 1.15 line spacing.
- Individual pieces of writing in your Word document should be titled, and separated by Page Breaks (not hard returns). A page break is achieved by using Control+Enter.
- Special formatting is strongly discouraged. Bold, italic, and multiple font sizes in a single piece are acceptable.
- Please title all attachments starting with your first name, last name.
- The exception to this is if you design your submission as a ‘camera ready’ JPG or PNG image that we can import into our publication as we would a photo. In that case, you may use any formatting you wish, but the image must be crisp, 300 DPI, and able to be reproduced clearly in black and white. If in doubt, please contact us at IndieBluSubmissions@gmail.com before submitting. Your ‘camera ready’ writing must be accompanied by the text in a Word (or PDF) version.
- Artwork submitted for the Anthology must be crisp, 300 DPI, and able to be reproduced clearly in black and white
- You will be notified if your work is accepted. Please do not consider non- acceptance as any diminishment of your experience, but as with any publishing venture, we must try to fit the individual pieces together into a strong whole.
- All contributors to the anthology will receive a PDF copy of the finished book
BIOGRAPHY: All submissions must include a professional biography and cannot be adjusted once submitted. Bios should be 75 words or less long and may include your social media links.
You will be contacted directly through your email when your work is safely received for submission. If your work is accepted for the anthology, you will receive an agreement letter that you need to complete fully, sign and return to us within 10 days.
PREVIOUSLY PUBLISHED WORK We will accept previously published work but must have written permission by the previous publisher attached with your submission if they retain rights to your work.
If you own the copyright, your permission and the date and title of the previous publisher must be included at the bottom of your submission.
Stand in radiance
I think of you as I might
the collected soil outline of a beloved plant, died in Wintered frost
slow the creep toward perish, I hold back, I do not want to enter that room
with its antiseptic smell, lolling tongues of linoleum stretching like vast desert
here nothing thrives
not you, in your beige iron bed with metallic purr of machines overhead
nor the sucking out of sight sound of life being apportioned and gentle knock and brush of clutter off stage
I have learned to manage my desires, like labeled things put away and forgotten
they seem inconsequential in the gravity of this moment, elongated into a maw, disabusing itself in perpetuate howl
the green eyed girl who sat astride you devouring your skin with the hunger of the famished, is just a filament of memory, drowsy with being taken out and examined many times
what is real feels false, we fall apart with rules, we are well behaved in chaos
as rain falls, drowning response, we are free briefly, to call for Gods who are sleeping against their fatigue of us
I look down at my fingers entwined in memory, carving the halls of you with journeys taken to your very core
wish I could write like a girl who didn’t need to rinse her eyes of salt and her mouth of violence
there are no mirages in this sterile land, only the abundant hygiene of fear, roasting itself on impotence
here even you, are forgotten to yourself. I wonder if you recall how we were or if
this eclipsed reality, so suffocating and tightly arranged, is your only memory
occasionally I want to do something vulgar and wrong, to break the dreadful count-down
call an old lover, meet them in the broom closet for some rearranging of clothes, we don’t know how to handle things, so we explode quietly inside ourselves
just to feel I am not plummeting alongside you
faithless for sure, my brand of lusting for life and wellness, anything but encroaching perishment, we fear dying even as we seek it
apparently I am not alone in this
strangers will swap bodily fluids in desperate snatching, on top of folded doctors overalls. That strange, nameless brand of green we all loathe
I was a false girl before we met, learning to reign in her impulses against a backdrop of damage
thriving under the rental of youth with no care for those far-off dates waiting in distant wings
life was already its own brand of unbearable, it felt yet, too searing to imagine decrepitude or bad luck
instead, thrive on the daydream, liquor up the inside of your nightmares and send them galloping and sweaty into the abyss
rest in the drowsy arms of indifference, for everyone wants something and nothing is as it seems
stop caring
until blinded or crippled, you crawl to your date with the inevitable
hearing your ancestors crow their dissatisfaction at your cliched rejection of fate
compassion doesn’t cost, but as I stare at the vacancy in your eyes I know
i’d say yes to the proffered ease of escape
yes to anonymous lovers and things to someday regret
but not now whilst we stand under the radiance
when life still reigns and I know how to squeeze from it, that ounce of pleasure
not hedonist but survivor. Some survive in the calm shallows
I want to wade waist deep in warm water, feel your touch bringing me back to life
not forget what it was to circle the varied heavens and their demands
nor the feeling of my heart in my throat, birthing color and chaos in equal order
I imagine you as you were, impossibly alive, bright in ways that hurt my eyes
our dance around the mandala of us, ever decreasing, unawares of our own diminishment
your last words lingering in pre-storm humid air, like fruit left a little long in sun
sticky and soft we meld together and break apart with the astringent sting of broken clay
turning again to earth, as if it had never, not once, not even in dream
held water.
Outcome
She came into town
breathless with excitement
they were dying around her
but she wanted to go for coffee
to get her nails done, her hair, wax the city
burn the little temples of obedience
she didn’t think a swath of fabric
let alone standing apart like courting
birds
could slow the spread of something
fictional
she was young, though not as young as others thought
Botox took care of that
and a little filler
her heart was set on
kicking up her heals and the virus
was just a news cycle
nothing to take seriously.
Waking in hospital she
momentarily forgot to
smooth her hair down until
she felt her fingers brittle and cracked
her beautiful face marred with fever
“at least I survived” she smiled
with yellowed teeth, hot with flux
half joking at the scared nurse who
was working her second double shift.
They decided not to tell her yet
until she was out of danger, if indeed she ever
was
that her father, mother and little sister
were not going
to wake up again
and join in her
merriment.
The true price of things
The pool reflects deep with shallows, an opaque pearl
she has always been beautiful, even now, even then,
she dives without concern, because, what else can happen?
When people die, that’s how you feel, invulnerable in the face
of dreads previously unimagined
and also, terribly, terribly aware of pain.
Some hide the rest of their lives, others drive fast cars at night
not wearing their glasses
she is one of those who stands somewhere in-between
the grief of injury lies heavy on her dark shoulders
still, she plunges into water, imagining other realities
one where she never knew horror and horror never knew her
where babies were born perfect and whole
husbands did not get crushed in half and
soured settlements buys them luxury
they’d trade it all in, to have him whole
less angry, more able to be, swimming underwater with her.
not lost, broken even after healing, crushed despite being repaired
holding the welt of injury in his throat like a choking bird.
She has moved on from who she was
ten years ago in Africa
under the sun, hiding from herself, hiding from kaleidoscopic future
it has come, blooming wild and spreading its green fingers
into her oval mouth
she has no time for passion anymore
she has no patience for imagination
she can only swim
cutting through the reluctant weight of water
like a blunt knife will eventually carve
the true price of things.
for Em.
WHAT WE VALUE
Our society worships entirely the wrong animal, venerating them and reducing others to ash.
The news recently devoted a good portion of the sports coverage to how much money certain sports figures were going to be paid for kicking a ball across a field. And this in a time when our jobs are dissolving, our society is being wrecked, our economy may be irrecoverable and certain industries will cease to exist en mass. Put simply, there will not be jobs to come back to folks but apparently we still need to pay these guys billions for their service to humanity?
I cannot understand how ANY society and how any of us can tolerate/accept a sports figure being paid anywhere NEAR that sum for what they do when those who really do jobs worth paying, are dying in droves because they are not receiving enough personal protective gear to protect themselves.
When did we start paying someone to kick a ball millions and a nurse who saves our life, hundreds?
What’s wrong with us?
If I were an alien observing our planet, I would seriously wonder if we all were crazy in our assessment of VALUE. What we value. What we do not. If nothing else, Covid-19 has given us a chance to see this once and for all and try to do something about it.
We have marched for Black Lives Matter during this time because it was over-due and our raw emotions on the subject burst out of their polite shell and filled the streets with ire and a desire for equality but how many of us really want equality? Not all of us that is for sure, look around and you can see it in every facet of life, a desire to be above someone else somehow.
We still routinely under-react and permit by our inaction, serious hideous crimes like rape to go unpunished in this country and others.
It’s the year 2020 and we still think inequality for women is acceptable in some forms and fashion. Let us not forget what Maya Angelou said about wanting to vote for a white woman over a black man. She said – women were the original oppressed group, thus we should work backward until all oppressed parties are equal. I agree with her.
We still think hate crimes against Jews and telling Jews that Israel should not be their country is somehow acceptable, despite those Jews having descended from that country. Would we say the same to Black People about Africa. Of course not! So why do we say it to Israel? Because of the Palestine Question which Europe in particular has decided to side with, uncaring of the history of persecution toward Jews and their right to have some land of their own. Of course we shouldn’t persecute Palestinians either and of course, Israel has made mistakes but it’s now about what optics politicians choose and what side of the story is half-revealed via inaccurate news reporting. It’s essentially about which side looks right to support? Because Trump supports Israel, most left-wing supporters are against it. Yet it is not that simple and never should be. Lest we forget our history.
We still think homosexuality is unnatural and abhorant and that being queer isn’t natural. We don’t say it out loud because it’s not popular to say it, but we think it and we act it and gays know. They know.
We talk about slavery and how horrific it was, but half the time we just pay lip service to the deeper issues, because we don’t know our history so we don’t mention Native Americans and how they were exterminated en mass and continue to be disenfranchised. We’re so proud of ourselves for changing the Red Skins but we think that’s enough. Or how slavery has never really gone away, it’s just changed hands and outfits, but it’s still well and thriving in many forms.
So it’s never enough. Until everyone is equal and inequality and racism are a thing of the past. But will they ever be? With people who seem to thrive on discrimination and putting themselves ahead of others and putting others down? If people think wearing a mask is too much, is it any wonder they really don’t give a shit if you are sick or you are vulnerable? Don’t they just want you to die and bugger off?
Likewise with illness, with chronically sick people, it’s never enough to just have laws that allow them to not be discriminated against because discrimination comes in a myriad of differing forms. Subtle. Unreachable. Devastating. People of color have to put up with this EVERY SINGLE DAY as do women, as do gays, as do sick people. Just one roll of the eye says everything. Says; ‘we think you are pathetic‘ invalidates an entire moment.
Chronic illness is a little like amputation. Obviously anyone who has suffered an amputation will refute this and rightly so. But metaphorically it remains akin to the loss of a limb. You are left flailing, unsure of how to right yourself, and continue as once you were. A part of you is lost.
They talk of periods of adjustment. The stages of grieving: Anger for what you have lost. Shame imposed by a society who now judges you weak. Acceptance of a ‘new normal’ that includes intolerable things such as chronic pain etc. For many, those stages of grieving never really end, they cycle and you go through different dilutions depending upon how you progress.
But progress is perhaps not the right word. In our linear society where so much is expected. For someone to drop off and no longer thrive, in nature they would be left behind to perish. In our society they are carried along but reminded frequently, of their burden, of their ineptitude.
For many who suffer mental illness, physical illness, both, there is a lot of shame attached to their existing after this fact. Even as people do not come out and say it directly (and believe me, many do!) there is a thin veil that is easily penetrable. People know when they are treated differently, seen differently, worse, judged without jury.
Being ‘sick’ in any manifestation is seen as a ‘weakness’ by our society. This invariably goes back to the ‘dog-eat-dog’ notion of surviving. The weakest link perishes or is a burden to the whole. But these days, with our so-called faith and mercy in place, one might imagine a little more compassion? And if you did, you would be sorely disappointed.
Since getting sick in 2017 I have felt intermittently well enough to continue working and ‘accomplishing’. But as with any pendulum, when it swings deeply toward illness, I am right back at the horror point of when it all began, down on my knees, imploring the universe for healing. And for the most part I have done this alone, because as all those who have been sick for a time will attest, most people do not stay by your side. Even those you expect to.
You can’t plan any longer. A trip is a fear because what if you get sick? Then someone suggests; maybe it’s in your head, maybe you are making yourself sick? And no matter how many times you prove otherwise, they think maybe it’s a choice, just like being gay is a choice, right?
Wrong. You can’t rely upon yourself like you used to because you never know how it’s going to be, how you are going to be. And usually you could be relied upon 100 percent and now that’s gone and somehow you still have to plan a future, but how do you plan a future if you can’t rely upon yourself?
I try to take something from every experience I have, including negative ones. Without learning we don’t grow we just regurgitate and I would rather grow even if I’m throwing up and in pain as I do it. I have taken from this experience what is obvious, but I have also tried to take from others experiences, and have noticed disturbing patterns among those I know who have also been sick for a while or a very long while.
People leave.
People don’t care.
Poverty goes hand in hand with illness.
Anxiety and fear are natural outcomes for a plethora of reasons.
Loneliness can kill.
What I have come to see is this. Sick people are TRUE WARRIORS.
They fight the unimaginable that most of us never have to endure. They have to get pacemakers in their 40s, they have to struggle through taking 2 hours to get dressed and STILL MANAGE TO SHOW UP and this strength – this strength is what I have learned the most from my experiences and listening to others. Strength comes in many forms. We dismiss most of those forms but they are real.
I watch people who have seizures and brain tumors, fight and fight and fight and I realize, we’ve got it backwards. We should be applauding these people not marginalizing them. But we do everything backwards, because as a whole we are poisoned by false ideas of what is valuable and what is not. We toss aside those we deem un-valuable when they are perhaps some of the most valuable people in the world.
So if you are disabled in any way, be it in your head, or your body, remember that. You are some of the most valuable people in the world. Let nobody ever let you forget that. You are some of the most valuable people in the world.
This is written for my sister Angie. You inspire me every single day. You are that light in the dark that refuses to give up and because of you, I refuse to give up too.
TheFeatheredSleep 