I am sick: still.
I am angry: now.
I am angry at still being sick and bored beyond measure at describing my existence in words that in summation form an index of pain, fragility and dysfunction.
I am frustrated by medical professionals turned pushers of narcotics that blunt what little feeling I have remaining and disheartened by those turned avoiders: who hide from my calls because my condition pushed them to the limits of their knowledge and expertise and do not wish for reminders.
Is it too much to ask for acknowledgement that my life has come to a standstill? To ask for understanding that I turn to you for aid following month after month of inner disturbance?
I am exhausted from filling lengthy forms designed to test my incapacity: forcing me to prove inadequacy over and again as I beg for assistance to manage my meagre subsistence.
As if the fact of my illness were not enough, I am chastised into writing “I cannot …” repeatedly across blackboards of administrative petitions.
What a pitiful creature am I made by this illness!
Inability to function without assistance has robbed me of privacy and solitude. Inability to control one’s own form has stranded me in my own home and turned a place of shelter into a holding cell. Not prison yet, as stubbornness forces me to remember what I built this space for; but some days, it is a close-fought battle.
I want to become that inconsolable child who throws itself upon the floor and howls: to just roar and roar and roar and refuse to be comforted.
Such a release would seem a relief, but I am afraid: for there is such rage within me:
This … THIS is not me. THIS is not my life. THIS is not what I spent effort and sacrifice to achieve.
This feeble being living a figment of life: existing from one point of agony and defect to another is NOT who I am.
And so you find me here: bent sobbing over a keyboard; shaking fingers punching keys in an attempt to convey the ferocity of feeling that bubbles beneath solid bone and stains inert nerves with bitterness and futility.
But I am struggling to shape the words into a corresponding torment: to match language to exquisite distress and infirmity.
So today, I’ll admit to defeat and simply say: Aaaaaaaaaaarrrrrggggghhhhhhh!!!!!!!
SO TELL ME: What do you think of this piece?
- Did it engage you?
- Does the meaning come across? Are there any images or lines you don’t understand or find unclear?
- Are there obvious errors in spelling, punctuation or grammar?
- Do you have any suggestions for revision?
Please be brutally honest in your assessments – good, bad or indifferent.
I don’t scare easily; and I really do want to hear what YOU have to say about my work.
Many thanks in advance for your time and your criticism.
You can find out about other bloggers’ Murphy’s Law experiences at The Daily Post: Comedy of Errors
SPREAD THE WORD
If you liked this post, I mean really liked this post, why not tell your friends? You could also subscribe while you’re at it. You know, so you don’t miss anything.
AUTHOR: I am might war. I have a love of music, the written word, travel, Anime, polar bears, people and “sticking and colouring”.