Illness and Grace

How do you speak ill of yourself they say?

Is it the illness inside? The cancer that’s aged a face five years in one, the weight that drops and then bounces back everywhere except to her formerly perky ass, the hip bones sharp enough to cut through fruit when one lies down, or the blood she spits from the chemo sores in her mouth?

I can hide my actual sickness, but why can’t I stop my vomit of commentary on my physical? Maybe it’s because I was always held up to hollywoods requirement of being a pretty thing or being nothing at all. Bad self-talk forever being interwoven into my language due the beauty standard, yet somehow I have an abundance of confidence for everything within my brain and in my soul. It all stems from my complementary need from a lover and yet it’s also my superficial objectification from the world.    

I loved nothing more than when he called me georgous beyond words, or the fact that his eyes always made me think that I actually was going to take his breath away,

but I hated when “blonde tits” is all his circle saw of me, like a massive billboard they could never take down to see the view behind it. I still miss him even now, I crave the IV he shot into my arm of love - and like no one could ever hurt me, until the day he hurt me more than cancer.    

There was a time where I could be in Mojave desert and live off of his gaze of me without water for years.. now I sit alone in the desolate sand and fill my own cup. If only I could drink enough.

The world hears the comments I make about my dwindling hair, but they don’t see the thrashing in my hospital chair, my life leaving my body with each injection, the fear of death that looms over me. You know that white noise right after you’ve been in a car accident, that’s was once my wake up call to chondroscarchoma every morning, and yet I had my cup of coffee like it was a normal day.

But then I made a choice to still be tender in this sometimes harsh world. Naming every little animal, holding that child in my arms and still believing in love again.

I found grace in my pale knuckles.

I found it in each thoughtful movement I made dancing away from cruelty.

I found it while chasing danger to feel it all and in the many moments I spent healing from loving empty hearts.

I found it in third world countries and while running myself physically into the asphalt to cross a finish line alone.

I found grace in accepting strife as a part of life and choosing to be my own light in the pit of darkness.

I found it in my inhale of self acceptance right before I fall asleep and in my exhale of regret the second I wake.

I found it in hospital rooms holding hands with her while I felt life slipped away.

I found it while hugging my father tenderly even though he felt like wall of bricks.

I found it while I laughed at myself in the middle of the chaos.

I found it in writing poetry where I tried to turn tap water into fine whiskey.

I found grace right inside me

...where it turns out it had been all along.

But can you see me? Or do you only see my sickness? The ill that I share, and the ill that I hide? Or do you see the ill that is beautiful. All the rough parts of me that make me alive?

Alive.

In illness and with grace.