The skin above my left eyebrow is flaking. Pieces of me fall off in chunks, from my matted hair, over my swollen eyelids, into the lines above my cheekbones.
"I look so old," I can't help but notice.
Gone are my bright eyes of wonder. In their place, a sagging, droopy stare that appears more 80 than 41. It is just the beginning of torment.
My left arm hangs at my side, unable to withstand the pull of gravity.
"I. just. need. to. hold. it," I think, tugging at it incessantly. My right arm carries it, like a sling. It now holds the weight of two. I hope it can endure without breaking.
In my mind, I can't ignore the chattering of voices:
"You're not getting well," they tease.
"It's been over a year."
Stubbornness fights equally as hard:
"Let yourself be surprised."
"You can turn this around."
Invisible to the naked eye, stands a coach and a patient. Each with something to say. Each determined to drown out the other. Each valid in their points of view, even when the view is less than empowering.
In the middle, is me. The real me with a big "M"...listening, waiting, hoping, praying.
Make it safe.
Make me strong.
Let me accept.
Give me peace.
Altered Today: Telling the story I don't want to tell