I don’t often speak about this, but pain is an isolating enough darkness without meeting shame too. And I am more than just acoustics for this lacerating silence.
I am in another excruciating wait for answers on my widespread chronic and often severe pain. In the in-between space of illness without words to hold its form, it’s too easy to wrap yourself in panic, alternating feverish and frozen, wondering if it’s premature or sensible to start grieving dreams. I try not to visit the graveyard too often.
I love you. I have not forgotten you. But my bones seem to have forgotten how to leave the bed without hurting, and my mind is not always strong enough to collect them together and kiss them better long enough to leave the house. And sometimes, sometimes holding my body without hate is all today can hope for.
But if it needs fixing, then it is broken. And half my life in this bruising duet, I’m not sure what part I’m singing. Because when I close my eyes, and look for my edges, I find my head, torso and limbs, my whole body knows itself by where the aching meets the air. So if somehow I bury it, and we’re so synchronized, will I disappear when life no longer hurts? Am I the shadow or the shape?
Oh these ghosts don’t sleep, they accompany, this chemical dance of diagnoses. I limp the barren triangle – kitchen bathroom bed, repeat.
So always read the label, because hope comes in child-safe bottles, and take only as directed by the pharmacy of choreographers.
Now my fingers trace over all the gaps in my music, but I’ve given up on playing along. When you’re composed around black holes, how much longer till you’re just…(gone?)
No. I am tired. I am angry. I am sad. But I am here. I might not be here in every way this world wants me to be, or every way I wish I was, but I am here. And right now that’s enough. I am learning. I am learning I am enough.