New Poem- Especially Then

Hello, readers. As part of my own personal writing therapy, I decided to write a different kind of poem today. I'm not going to explain it much because I think the title and the poem speak for themselves. Let's just say that, even though I often write about societal biases and ignorance in the face of chronic pain, I am deeply grateful for those who are not in chronic pain and have yet done their best to understand and share in some of the difficulty of chronic pain. If you are one of those people, this poem is for you. Please click "read more" for the full poem.

Especially Then

For my Dad, for my Mom, and for Everyone Else who Tries

By: Blog Admin

I want you to know that I love you.

I love you when you look at me, with my flushed cheeks,

the picture of health,  and still trust me, believing

a monster, an illness you cannot see, lurks in my brain.

I love you, even when I snap, yelling and stomping my

foot like a child because you cannot see

the way the edge of the table glimmers in green or

the way the walls ripple—the way the world

looks through the eyes of a girl with advanced Chronic

Migraine Syndrome.

And I love you, even when

 pain drills a hole through

my head,  and all you can do

is hold my hand, trembling.
Even then.

Especially then.

I want you to know that I’m sorry.

I’m sorry when seeing me hurting

hurts you and your eyes shine with pain

that matches my own.

I’m sorry, even when I cannot stop

my pills from rattling as I pour them out of their jar

or when my shoulders sag and my smile

trembles because I cannot hide my pain well enough.

And I’m sorry, even when I hide my pain too well, when I snap

my cell phone shut before dialing your number to ask for help

or when I sip water with a pill gripped

between my teeth so you will not see it

 and know I can no longer bear the pain pulsing behind my eye.

Even then.
Especially then.

And I want you to know that I’m happy.

I’m happy when you hug me, the grip

 of your arms telling me you wish

you didn’t have to let go.

I’m happy, even when your voice

or the scrape of your fork against

 china sends pain rippling through my skull

while we talk over dinner.

And I’m happy, even when my friends go on trips

and run barefoot across the sand, watching the ocean shimmer,

and I must stay home and play cards with

you on the living room floor because travelling

will only make the pain slice deeper.

Even then.
Especially then.