Forced Wallowing

I try not to wallow in the past, try not to have any regrets. But sometimes, something triggers a flashback.

Time Warp

It creeps up when least expected
And – BAM! – a sucker-punch to the brain.
Cringing, pulling away.
Unh! Where did this come from?
Unrelated to the now
A sudden fracture in time.
Dragged through the portal to act it out again
There, in that when, as surely as she is here now.
One second a woman,
The next, a teen in a moment of utter humiliation
Or a five-year-old crying in shame
Or a twenty-year-old biting her tongue too late.
Then sucked back into the present, shuddering.
Safe harbor after time-travel.

P.S. The fibromyalgia study didn't pan out.

The Pain Remains the Same

So, no fibromyalgia study yet. Had to stay home with my sick kid. I'll make it through okay; I always do. As I've said, my body is falling apart. I guess part of it is just aging. And those pounds don't come off as easily as they used to. It's funny. I've always claimed to be comfortable in my body, to happy with the weight I am. But now, after thinking that I had gotten over the terrible years of self-loathing and low self-esteem, I'm finding that my looks do matter to me - more than I thought. Hopefully I can pull myself back up and not let it rub off on my daughter. I've tried so hard to make sure she knows that the exterior is not important. I'd hate to ruin all my work now.

That brave former
Miss America
on television just now
said she visited the White House
once.
Met Eleanor Roosevelt.
But poor Eleanor . . .
that woman said
she would never win
a beauty contest.
Poor Eleanor.
She was saddled with
intelligence, courage,
and compassion.
How many points for those?

Anticipation . . .

I suppose that title could be intriguing, but this is the anticipation of an old body waiting for relief. See, I'm falling apart at 38. Been diagnosed with osteoarthritis, IBS (if you don't know, you probably don't want to), had bunyon surgery, get the occasional severe headache (haven't bothered to find out if these are really migraines), etc . . . Turns out that these are all symptoms of something called fibromyalgia. I've known this for a while but have never talked to my doctor about it. Tuesday, I'm going in to see if I get a diagnosis and can qualify for a study. This is positive either way, as I will know what I'm truly dealing with.


While I was reading about fibromyalgia at the Mayo Clinic website, I learned that moodiness, anxiety, and depression, which I have been experiencing with increasing frequency over the years, are also symptoms.


So, this leads to another poem. When I started writing it, it was kind of a joke. I've mentioned before my desire to hide under things when I get stressed out. I'm not kidding. Whether it's a school desk, my desk at home, or the bed, if I'm feeling stressed, I imagine myself climbing underneath and hiding. I haven't done it yet. I guess the day it actually happens will be the day I know I have to get help. I've been trying to write about it for a while. I tried a short story, then a poem. The poem did not have the wry humorous tone I was shooting for. It was the first time I realized there actually might something serious beneath (no pun intended) my strange pre-occupation.

letting go

i did it –
finally stopped struggling
gravity got me after all –
pulled me right under

finally stopped struggling
i’d held my ground so many times
pulled me right under
the dragging weight – at last

i’d held my ground so many times
voices clamored from every corner
the dragging weight – at last
comes the call, irresistible

voices clamored from every corner
this time I let go
comes the call, irresistible,
and I find myself sliding, sliding

this time I let go
i did it
i find myself sliding, sliding –
gravity got me after all