Fighting the Chronic: Abandoning the Cry

struck i was, by the call to depart from violent language

number four.

right there. ilana jacqueline typed the words i couldn’t shape in a blog post.

pushing my chronic pressure points, laughing and crying and relating. i wanted to reach out and hug her.

you’re not living with chronic illness if you’re “fighting” it,
she says,
you’re not living if you’re fighting

at last, at last! proof! another being feeling trampled by the jarring, taring, crashing, shooting, breaking, trampling diction of chronic disease

the death diction dramatizing the harshness of my day to day existence,

i get it

i get why we need it
the money! the funds!

gimmie my program
my research, my daughter, my son

undo the struggle, give back the careless childhood

i get why we need it, the money, the funds

we must communicate the importance of our cause.
battle. fight. beat it. run. win. win it. kill it done.

ladies and gentlemen. these words sting me like a priest asking god to forgive the sins that washed this disease over me to begin with.

like something with an end point, changing, brewing, fixing

be it dramatic, my feeling is valid

and true.

invisible house, pounding invisible doors, withdrawing into nothing but disappointment

why haven’t we moved past this?

i was drafted to a flowering meadow disguised as a war
where sunshine looks like bloodshed and blossoms like scars
where weeds look like time bombs and…

my life is not a battlefield, and my pump is not a gun.

pardon my abandonment

tell you once i don’t want it, and change it?

i will

i’ll search for and find a treatment for this language

a treatment’s not a cure, but i’ll work out that too.

i’ll be it, not preach it

the exodus of violence in my day well lived

a most grand transcendence from fight and compete
to bold and complete

from grenade to morning dew

from trench to divot

fear to matrimony

together, in tandem

read me my vows, i’ll dance and say i do
if we work together,
with all we’ve got

well, we will get as far as we get…
knowing well we met in a flowering meadow and lived our days
most of our days
not scratching and death-trapping
kindly caring

I'm sorry I didn't see this when it was first posted.

I'm sure if you've ever read anything I've posted that I'm one of those who has thought at least at times that he was a warrior, living in a battlefield.

You really struck me with this, and I think in a good, mind-opening, horizon-broadening way.