The Devil’s Artwork

I never expected to be chronically ill this early in life. I still have school age children, active in sports and many other things.

I have a vibrant marriage, filled love and friendship like no other. I want or need for nothing. Except good health. 

I’m in physical pain almost daily. The days I feel well are refreshing and freeing. They jump out at me and grab my attention like a fierce hug from a long lost friend, because they are so few and far between. 

I remind myself that I am not the only one in this world with pain, in pain. I’m in far less than many. More than others.

Comparing is a fool’s game, however.  I must give myself the dignity to validate my own experience regardless of its relevance to anyone else’s. I have to allow myself this selfishness. This self – love.  

Sometimes it turns into self pity and anger, and I want to pound my fist into the ground until my knuckles are dust mixed with blood and bone.

Or I want to slice my throat just to get the long, drawn out, inevitable process the fuck over with already!

But, I don’t, and I won’t.  It’s not for me to do to my family. To my children. To their minds.

I go to each doctor’s appointment, and I take their advice.  I do what I am told and I stay the same or get worse and then maybe better, and then back again. A pendulum that always comes to rest back at center.

Chronic illness is the devil’s artwork tattooed on my cells. My organs scream for the touch of God. Will I ever see His face?

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