I don't mean to get crazy personal, but in terms of my illness, I feel as though I simply had to make a choice to be healthy or ill, and to wear one of those two labels when I'd get up each morning. Deep down, it was my choice, how I decided to frame myself. Most days, I choose health. Sometimes, that's a hard choice to make.
How I Chose To Get Up Again
I was tired of being sick –
The mind’s stiffness, growing numb,
The glow of the television, the ache
Of muscles that ache to move but can’t
Or won’t, I hadn’t decided yet.
Because the smell of sitting
Became too much. Because I was sick
Of my tangled hair in my face,
Of reaching up for someone else’s hand
To rise, because seasons change,
Because the body wants to, too,
Because flowers bloom and die and bloom again
Because even if I wasn’t ready, life goes on,
Because I’d already exhausted every episode
Of Gordon Ramsey, binged through
The seasons of Orange is the New Black,
the Golden Girls, Frasier, anything
to take my mind off myself.
Because I was sick of medication,
The habitual swallowing of pills
As natural as breathing, as walking,
The numbness that follows
Of body, of mind. Because the days
Were going to begin and end with
Or without me. Because I had to take
That first step, work through
The pain, either swallow it down
Or let it linger on the tongue,
The choice was mine. I grabbed my cane.
I winced. I stood up on my own two feet
stumbled into the sun.