How Quickly
How quickly now my brain-fogged mind
reaches saturation point
decides it’s had enough
and goes on strike.
Too soon, too soon it closes down,
too soon the eyes begin to ache
struggle briefly,
then give up the fight.
Sept 2001
Frustration
I used to have a life.
I never was a sprinter, even as a child, but yet I had a life.
Trained as a dancer, worked to pay my way;
and later on left home and danced upon the stage.
Got married, had children, one, two, three; and,
still only 21, I did the things that mothers do,
cleaned the house, the school run,
helped my husband with his work,
went to church, taught sunday School, camping with the kids.
Life was very busy.
I took my dogs for long walks up into the hills,
and life was hard but, nonetheless,
I coped as much as anyone and maybe more than some,
and never did I guess, not even for a minute,
that one day soon my life would end,
well, life as I knew it.
Who could have known a bout of flu, or something very like it,
would lay me so low? Would take away my freedom,
and leave me a prisoner of this all too solid flesh?
To be reduced to this! A desiccated vegetable
too weak to hold a cup of tea, too tired to even think.
Doctors looked cynical,
Well, I was a woman. And middle aged at that!
I must be depressed. Or better yet, neurotic.
And ever since I’ve done the rounds: blood tests,
and “Are you depressed?”
“No”, I try to tell them.
Went to University and got a good degree.
Does this sound like depression?
I rather think not. And only exhaustion
made me give up on my longed for PhD.
But still and yet they ask me boringly, repeatedly,
“Are you depressed?”
No, I’m frustrated, I need to get a life!
My body won’t allow me to do the things I want to do,
to walk and dance and sing, oh how I long to sing!
I want to dance the night away just like I used to do,
or even go out walking, or have a holiday.
Instead I watch TV, and chat to people on the net
and, quietly and unobserved, go out of my mind.
© 2001
On living with ME
Why don't I get angry?
Rant and rave?
Why this?
Why me?
And why so long?
Truth is, I can't afford it,
the energy required.
Just getting through each day...
I've none to spare for anger.
An unstrung marionette
lying deserted, abandoned.
But no, not that,
for then I'd never move at all,
and move I must.
A beanbag, yes, but filled -
not with light and fluffy stuff -
much heavier than that.
Lead shot, that's it.
Or better yet,
lead jello.
Yep, that's me.
Lead jello.
With brainfog.
And tiresome sensitivity
to noise and light
and chemicals
and eyes that ache
and muscles too
and coughing, sneezing,
laughing, wheezing...
Oh yes, I still laugh.
What else is there to do
When life's a joke?
© 2002