A combination of poems and journal entries, a lyric essay
Sometimes people ask me if I remember what it felt like to be healthy. The truth is, I don’t remember being healthy, but I remember when I first found out I was sick.
I was 11. I remember walking into 6th grade and a girl from my class telling me I looked like I had a disease. You can imagine the repercussions a sentence like that might have on a little girl. Especially a little girl who did have a disease. My face was splotchy, tear-streaked, and I had spent my morning swallowing and gagging on pills I couldn’t pronounce the names of. I remember crying in the cubbies of our classroom and wiping my tears before sitting down at my desk and trying to get through my school day. I didn’t know then that I was subscribing to a lifetime sentence of spinning and hurting. To potions and pills and prods and pokes and doctor’s promises never working.
I carried the burden of being the sick girl with me to middle school, then high school, and into college. I never addressed my medical trauma until my adulthood. I’m in my twenties now and finally grieving the loss of self that my 12, 16, and 21-year-old selves weren’t strong enough to face.
I’ll never forget the little girl who raised me. I’m thankful for her, but I wish I could hug her.
I’m 25 now, and I’m still sick. Gosh, I’m so tired of waiting. I’m so tired of hurting. I’m tired of sitting in my bed and calling it healing. Yes, I know healing takes time. Yes, I know butterflies don’t just transform overnight. Yes, I know I’ll be fine, and yet…I’m not fine yet.
I keep telling myself that I’ll survive, but another minute, another hour, another day goes by where I’m watching the world from my window instead of making strides outside. I want off this ride. Off of the merry-go-round that lives in my mind.
Yes, I know, I have to keep going, but sometimes I sit in the dark of the night, and I can’t stop wondering. Is fine even a feeling? Or is it something non-existent for which I’m searching?
I like to read—did you know that?
No, not in the way you’re thinking. Not in the way you read the words on a page; rather, I engulf them. Reading gives me some place to go when I’m stuck here. I think I like the world in books better than the world I live in. That might sound sad, but I live in a harsh reality. Just like you escape to the gym or a ball game, I escape to the words written on the page. A little slice of heaven to break up the mundane. Just like you go to the hospital when you’re sick, maybe books are hospitals for our minds. So I’ll keep reading, to quiet mine.
I like to write too. I write books, and poems, and scribble on my walls. Sometimes I wake up at night to find myself writing in the darkness behind my eyelids. I wish I could rewrite my story for the little girl inside me. She never deserved this. Oh, that little girl. I loved that little girl. She had had such big dreams. She was far too creative for the mundane.
I still have big dreams, but my dreams…they come and they go. They ebb, and they flow, drifting beyond the shore of what my body allows. The pain screaming inside of my mind convinces me that my dreams will never come to life. No matter how hard I try, my body refuses to bloom. I crave metamorphosis, but I’m trapped in a cocoon. I watch my dreams like stars. I can’t quite touch them, but I’ll keep wishing for them.
Ever since I was a little girl, I’ve wanted to get married in a strapless wedding gown. I always thought I’d be married by 25, but here I am standing with an IV in my arm instead of a ring on my finger. Will I be married by 35? Finding your guy seems less important when you’re trying to survive.
Chronic illness has changed how my body looks. It’s hard to give yourself grace and find yourself beautiful when the first thing you see is a map of scars…a map of survival.
Would you believe me if I told you I once was the girl who lit up the room? I was bright and bubbly and full of life. Now all I want to do is hide from the light like I have a secret.
Like maybe I’m not as strong as everyone thinks. Like maybe there are too many nights that I cry myself to sleep. Like maybe I preach about trusting God, yet I quietly wonder if the idea of healing is merely a facade.
I don’t believe that it’s my destiny to be sick, but I do believe that being sick has shaped my path. The scars, the strength, the softness that’s still part of me, they are all puzzle pieces that make up my story. After a lot of tears and a lot of soul-searching, I’ve decided to embrace my battle scars.
My scars are beautiful. They tell a story. One that’s filled with God’s glory. By grace and through faith, I have walked and continue to walk through hellfire, and somehow, I’m still standing. My body is a soldier, and small but strong is she.
Sometimes people say to me, “You’re so strong. I couldn’t have made it as far as you have come.” Yes, you would have, if it were your only choice. See, all living people can choose to live, or choose to die. Choosing to live in pain is never an easy one, but I can’t win my war if I don’t front the fight.
So I’ll fight until, one day, I break out of this cocoon and can finally take flight.
Chloe Marika Glass (she/her) is a Colorado-based author, poet, and dreamer. Her creative process is rooted in honesty, chaos, softness, and survival. She draws inspiration for her work through lived experiences of resilience, chronic illness, faith, and self-discovery. Chloe is the author of Born to Overlove, a poetry collection that tenderly explores heartbreak and healing. She hopes to publish more poetry pieces, and she is currently writing a coming-of-age fiction series. Chloe loves painting peacefully, reading quietly, and living loudly when her body allows. She believes that words matter, and she hopes that her words will make a difference in the world.
Instagram: @chloemarikag and @_rockbottomup
Blog/Website: www.rockbottomup.biz