I’ve always had a passion for writing. However, my challenge lies in the fact that my thoughts often scatter, and I may complete only one out of every ten pieces I begin. I have a friend who grapples with constant chaotic thoughts. He finds it difficult to recognize any redeeming qualities within himself. The remarkable thing is, he possesses an unparalleled gift. His ability to put words to paper that evoke all your senses and transport you into the vivid scenes he creates is a talent possessed by few.
He’s been working very hard on himself for the last year or so, giving up things he once thought he wanted, to explore his past, understand who he has become, and discover who he wants to be. He’s utilized advice from friends, his own creativity, a great deal of courage, and therapy to break free from the box that trauma had trapped him in.
I am incredibly proud of him. He acknowledges that he was becoming toxic to himself and those he cared about. Instead of taking the easy route, he summoned the strength to become a better person. His journey is far from over, and he knows it will take years to untangle and overcome behaviors shaped by trauma. But he’s doing it, and I want him to know that, although my life is very busy at the moment & my time is limited… I see you.
He has a deep love for poetry, and so do I. Even though I’m just a small star in the vast galaxy of his talent, I knew that poetry was the language I needed to connect with him. I chose a reverse poem to serve as a reminder of where he once stood and where he stands today. I want him to understand that I see him, I’m proud of him, and I have faith in him. I look forward to watching his ongoing journey toward self-healing and self-awareness.
Read each line from top to bottom. Then read each line from bottom to top.
I’m fortunate to have an incredible support system, but in my darkest moments, I find myself alone. No one else can live in this body with me. Throughout the night, I’m here by myself, surrounded by darkness and pain. I’m sick, and I have to clean up my own vomit. It’s an unsettling reminder of the loneliness I battle despite the support around me.
Today was a challenging day, or rather, yesterday was. I have not slept, and time seems to be merging into a blur. It’s as if I’ve stepped into the Twilight Zone, where time doesn’t matter. However, reality hits, and I know I have to get up, get ready, and drive a teenager to field hockey practice in just two hours. So, yes, time indeed matters.
Despite the obstacles my body is putting in my path, I need to get on with my day and face it with a smile. Adding others to my misery only adds to the situation. I am happiest and more content when those who support me are living their best lives. I watch them view me through rose-tinted lenses, a view I’ve painted by pretending I’m okay. Those living with a chronic illness become skilled performers, some of the best actors and actresses you’ll ever meet. It’s a shame the Academy doesn’t give Spoonie Awards!
Yesterday was a day spent in intense pain. I managed to get up, take my medication, administer my injection, and take my granddaughter to get her ears pierced. I had to stop several times on the way home, the abdominal pain was merciless and unbearable. I contemplated going to the hospital, knowing full well, this was another blockage. Yet the thought of another exhausting and humiliating medical experience leaves me less than inclined to go. So, I suffer through the torment alone.
The several stops I made during my thirty-minute ride home, seemed futile. The Scleroderma dragon had awakened, wreaking havoc on my GI track’s ability to function. By now, it’s clear it’s another blockage. But did I go to the hospital? No, I did not. The thought of compounding my pain, stress, and overall agony by placing myself in a position to be judged by medical personnel who often treat me like a drug seeker, or time waster deterred me.
Then, having them humiliate me by being completely ignorant about it, like they’re teaching me a lesson or something.
“I’ve had far to many negative patient experiences to just, “go to the er”.
Advocating for myself isn’t new to me, but it’s an exhausting endeavor. The energy it takes to request they talk to my doctor or read through my chart before reentering my room is beyond me. Eventually, when they decide to heed my request, their demeanor shifts. Suddenly skepticism is replaced by compassion and belief. Now I’m declining multiple pain medications they initially assumed I was seeking. The irony is painful.
I shouldn’t have to endure humiliation before I’m treated humanely. So no, I did not go to the hospital. I returned home to suffer.
Within an hour of getting home, I began vomiting. Thankfully, my GI track decided to tediously do its job, and the pain did ease somewhat. The rest of the day, I continued to vomit and managed to navigate my sluggish intestines. Unfortunately, the vomiting triggered my reflux, and the dull headache from the Orencia injection kicked in around the same time. It was officially a full-on flare-up in this stubborn body.
Still, I did take my granddaughter for her piercing and her smiles added light to a dark day. My husband is on a camping trip, so I had to feed the animals and complete a few other necessary chores around the homestead. I even managed to get some online work done. Late evening rolled in, and I chatted with a group of friends online and cracked jokes. I don’t think anyone had an inkling of where I was physically or emotionally. Which I’m fine with because it gave me an escape from my current reality.
I’m writing this at 5 a.m. on Tuesday, as I start to see the light break through the night. I have come to the realization that this illness has taken something else from me, the joy and beauty in watching the sunrise. Because for me, sunrise means I haven’t slept again, the night is over, and people and animals are counting on me to do what I do. I fight, and I live my best life as painful, lonely, and difficult as it is sometimes. Because I know I only get this one life, and I want my legacy to be the joy I had for family, friends, and life. I absolutely do not want it to be, “She was always sick”.
“I’m doing everything in my power to be the person I want them to remember.”
One day this week, I’m going to plan a day to intentionally experience a sunrise. I want to truly absorb the beauty, and marvel at the miracle of life and new beginnings. I am tired of this disease constantly robbing me of experiences, I refuse to let it take another thing without putting up a fierce fight!
Huge shoutout to all who suffer in the darkness. Battle on, my fellow badass warriors.
Too often in our lives, we worry about being perfect. We’re all guilty of it in one way or another-we could be making a dish and spend hours on it, but we’ll fret if it’s slightly burned. Or we could have a poem or song idea spring to our minds, then we’ll kick ourselves afterward over a chord we missed or a note we didn’t hit. Or we could write someone a long letter, make a sales pitch, or see someone we’ve not seen in 20 years, and we’ll spend the time afterward chewing our fingernails past the first knuckle about what we should have said or done in the moment. Furthermore, we spend who-knows-how much time worrying about ourselves. Our eyes. Our hair. Our weight. If we have enough of a tan. How our smile looked in a selfie. How our voice sounded on a call or message. The list goes on and on.
I am guilty of this in my own right, especially in creative endeavors. Many, MANY times after interviewing someone, I will have those thoughts of, “well, why didn’t you say THIS,” or, “why didn’t you ask them THIS at THIS time,” etc. And many times when making videos for my ongoing radio/TV time capsule project, I’ll watch them back through and think, “why didn’t you include this piece of audio? Why did you have the audio clips in this order? Why did you cut out this much of a song?” Even in writing these blog posts, I’ll often find myself wishing I’d have gone longer, or included one more photograph, or posted one extra blurb about x, y or z.
It can be a draining and seemingly never-ending cycle. The vampire of perfectionism is highly persuasive. But in the course of a lifetime’s run, we begin to discover that, instead of being perfect, the most beautiful and genuine thing we can be is imperfect. ❤
I am spending this month of April writing various pieces of poetry, as a challenge a friend and I are partaking in for National Poetry Month. This morning, I posted a tanka, a haiku-like poem but with two extra seven-syllable lines tacked to it. It read as follows:
“dewdrop pearls shine as forest daylight finds us in each other’s arms kisses on the riverbank it’s a beautiful morning”
I shared it with her and some others that are writing with me, and our own Em pointed out that I had only four syllables in the first line when I thought I had five. After some conversation, I realized that the word pearls is only one syllable-at least in most dialects! I had spent most all of my life thinking the word was a two-syllable word, and when it was pointed out to me that it was only a single syllable, I felt highly self-conscious about my voice and largely Southern dialect. Until it was pointed out to me by my closest poetic friend Silvia that, although I had been mistaken, I had still written a beautifully-worded tanka poem for this day of the challenge. Something beautiful had sprung from this Parnassian imperfection. And without realizing it at the time, my 30-out-of-31 syllable tanka poem resembled a pearl-a sacred verbal geometry created by irritation and formed by grit. And it put everything into perspective, and showed me what to write this blog post about today.
In the constant tug-of-war we find ourselves in between striving for perfection and doing our best, we can lose sight of what our true intentions are. Renée, my closest friend and co-creator has clashed many times with me over the notion of “done is better than good”. I fought tooth and nail against that notion for so long. I had it in my head that, if something was worth doing, it was worth doing to perfection. Until I realized that perfect is just a pipe dream, something that is pumped into our heads from an early age. Perfect may be achievable in certain fields or passions or lines of work, but the width and breadth of it is that perfect is something we can only chase after. Doing your best is more than enough in most situations! And most times, doing your best will lead you to the most beautiful of situations, scenarios and places. Being yourself unapologetically will be worth more to you than any amount of silver or gold.
Post that selfie of you in a baggy t-shirt and sweatpants! Sing that song or read that poem in your beautiful voice and dialect! Embrace your eyes, nose, smile, belly, stretch marks, beauty marks, anything that makes you uniquely you! Your imperfections do not define you, nor do they make you any less of a person. They each make you your own beautiful and evergreen kind of perfect ❤
I hope this blog finds you well, and in the comments, talk a bit about how you embrace perfect imperfection!
As always, take care, much love and may God richly bless!
Those who have read my blogs may not know that I also am a poet. I have over 360 published pieces on AllPoetry, with nearly 50 of those being front page selections. On this day, I am dealing with drama within friend circles I am in. And rather than write a long, angsty blog for the millionth time, I decided this time to channel what I am feeling into a poem. This poem summarizes my feelings toward the matter, without saying it directly. In this poem, the title summarizes the wanting for peace, friendship, kindness and love to flourish; simply put, the wanting is a Wednesday in April.
“i wish for a wednesday afternoon in the middle of april cotton ball clouds, silver springs babbling green leaves in the trees birds standing shoulder to shoulder on the telephone wire, singing dogwoods and azaleas blooming dandelions flying through the air an apple orchard with shade enough for a post sun-bathing nap the hum of a passing car on highway 45 or a plane engine overhead dogs barking, children giggling the scents of pies in window sills still-damp clothes hanging on the line drying in the springtime an orb weaver spider spinning a web in a corner on the roof a bottle of apple wine and a pair of gold-rimmed glasses for you & i an old blanket and a hillside for cloud-gazing kisses and embraces”
I hope this poem finds you well, and in the comments, tell me a bit about how you deal with drama.
As always, take care, much love, and may God richly bless,
For many, Mother’s Day comes with conflicting emotions, triggered by all of the Hallmark-esque, posts, & comments of perfect children, perfect mothers, & perfect lives.
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