Sometimes, I think I can imagine the reality without the pain
When It was on the back burner
And not a screaming tea kettle that I can’t assuage
Sometimes, I am almost okay
I can think of other things,
Not of if I ate this or did that
And did it actually help or am I a hopeless patient
I am told to:
“Scan your body”
An exercise not made for me
Jarring me into the reality of the aches
The faded scar,
The ankles and knees that I hadn’t used much
But now I can feel the soreness and dull stabbing pain
Clear as day, and It won’t go away
Then I am told to focus:
“All the way down to your fingertips”
Down to the deepest focus of the torture,
My own personal 9th circle of hell:
The stiffness at best,
The stabbing knives at worst
Even while my hand lie idle
I am told to:
“Release the tension in your shoulders”
My shoulders have not relaxed in years
Regardless of how many times I’ve been asked
I’m Atlas, the world on my shoulders
The weight of it much too great
For me to ever let my guard fully down
Sometimes, if I am still enough
If I’m distracted enough
It is almost okay
I can almost pretend I am normal
pretend I am fine
pretend I am painless
But almosts do not equal a cure or an end to It
The whirlwind of afflictions are endless
Symptoms swirling around me
But It is invisible,
If I speak It, often I am dismissed because I look fine
I am dismissed because only occasionally will I disclose
The details of the discomfort,
But when I speak of discomfort, I speak of agony
Discomfort is daily,
But in a week, I just sound whiny
The invisibility of It to the world can never reflect
The chronic turmoil and trouble It brings to me
(Cover Image Description: Stock photo of cursive handwriting on paper, cursive is unable to be read. End of image description)
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