All, Insecurities, Poems, School/Career

Dreams

You dream.
You dream of having the “perfect” body.
You dream of your eyeliner being even.
You dream of finding “Mr. Right”.
You dream of a face clear of acne,
Of being beautiful enough,
Of being funny enough,
Of being skinny enough.
Us girls?
We dream.
But these are all generalizations,
Of course.
Dreams fed on stereotypes.
Whether we all dream these kinds of things
Or not,
They’re just surface-level dreams.
Deep-down,
We dream
Different dreams;
We long for different things.
Deep down,
You dream of being
GREAT.
We dream of being doctors who treat cancer,
Of being the scientists who cure it.
We dream of being astronauts,
Police-women,
Firefighters,
Professional chefs,
Football players,
Engineers,
Surgeons!

So….
What stops us?
Why do we seem to dwell on the surface-level “dreams?
Why do you tell yourself that being GREAT
Is less possible than clear skin?

Who
Says
You
Can’t?

Who makes you out to be weak?
To be whiny?
To be shallow?

Who says that us girls
Dream only of having the “ideal” body?
So as to…
What?
Get a man?

Who says that our
Futures
Are built upon the ideals
Of men?

The things that society says are beautiful:
The high cheekbones,
Long hair,
Flat stomach,
Thigh gap,
Long eyelashes.
The lack of muscle on our
Arms and legs,
No meat on our bones.

Society believes we need these things
So a guy will find us
Attractive.
So we can have a family
And be a housewife.

Why can’t we define
OURSELVES?
Why can’t we base our lives off of
Ourselves?
Off our own ideals?

Why can’t our goals,
Our desires,
Our wishes
Be based on our own successes?

You’re living in a man’s world, honey.

We’re living in a man’s world
Where it’s more realistic
To dream of fitting a mold,
Where it’s more realistic to be
Ordinary.

They want you to be inferior.
They want you to be ordinary.

But you’re NOT.

You don’t have to be.

You go out there and
show them
That it’s
YOUR world,
That you are, in fact,
Extraordinary.

You go out and show them
That you’re MORE than mediocre.

You’re smart.

You’re driven.

And you have just what it takes
To make the world
Believe in
You
And your
Dreams.

Friendship, Insecurities, Poems

The Best Are Harder To Find

A box in the rain, on a field outside
Sat wet and gloomy in the bitter cold.
I saw this box, sitting there like it died
Years ago. So I opened it– Behold!
An oyster, so old and… a chunk of gold!
Tossed the shell aside and took the jewel
Everywhere I went. And the stone controlled
What I did, how I lived; I was its mule.
But I threw that pyrite straight at the wall,
And took out the old clam shell I had found.
In it was a beautiful pearl, so small;
It comforted meโ€” healed, saved from that mound.
Toxicity’s out in packages bright,
While the best may be hidden out of sight.

with tm friends
Some of my best friends and I at TM camp
Chronic Illness, Disability, Insecurities, Poems, Transverse Myelitis

Pieces

01/28/2017– I always hated the last stanza of this poem. Kinda awkward. I finally changed it. Still not perfect, but a lot better, in my opinion. ๐Ÿ™‚

I’m dedicating this poem to one of my best friends, Sarah Todd ๐Ÿ™‚ She’s been through a lot the last (almost) 6 years of her life, but has found new passions to replace the holes left by the old things she can no longer do. ST has found a way to pick up the pieces and put herself back together; I admire that a lot!! โค

 

Pieces, broken cov’ring the floor;
A trail of me lead to the door.
I couldn’t keep together, me;
When a wave hitโ€” disparity.

Nobody knew, because my face
Was happy, smiling, full of grace.
But inside of me was a sea
Of anger, of sadness, not glee.

Was drowning in that water that
Consumed me; chased me like a cat
After a mouse. No one could see
The storm, the war inside of me.

So pieces, on the floor they lie;
Could leave them there to petrify.
Or I could pick them up, maybe,
And show the world I can be free.

Chronic Illness, Disability, My Favorites, Transverse Myelitis

The Little Things

This poem is dedicated to my friend Alex, who also battles TM. She helped spark this poem; we were having a deep conversation about this topic a couple weeks ago. She appears in this poem as “a girl”. :p

Our TM stories are very different, and yet we can still relate to each other in many ways!! I thought having another story interwoven into this poem would help get the point across, since the “little thing” vary from person to person. ๐Ÿ™‚ Enjoy! I’m proud of this one.

 

From the time I could hold a pencil,
Could form shaky letters with the graphite tip,
Only semi-legible,
I loved to write.

I’d write stories,
Imaginative and mysterious,
About wizards and dragons and princesses;
About talking flowers and animals, and taking a trip to the moon.

When I was a child,
I had a routine with my father.
A few days a week we’d practice pull-ups in the basement.
He taught me a lot about life with those pull-ups:
“You can always try to do one more.”

He taught me to push myself, and push myself I did,
In every aspect of my life.

I loved roller coasters,
Especially ones
With the biggest drop.

I loved the feeling of my stomach in my chest
And screaming loudly with my arms in the air.

I know a girl
Who loved fuzzy socks and hot showers,
And skipping and dancing while she walked.

When you’re paralyzed,
When you have a chronic illness,
A lot is taken away.

I can’t walk well; she can’t at all.
We can’t run or ride a bike,
And both of us
Have overwhelming
Pain and fatigue.

We’re teenagers,
And can’t keep up with our homework,
Let alone our friends.

But that’s not what puts a lump in our throats everyday.

When I think of the little things,
Like writing with my right hand,
Or doing pull-ups with my dad,
My heart
Aches.

When I think of riding a roller coaster,
When I think of the pleasant drop of my stomach
Instead of dizziness and pain
That lasts for
Hours,
I feel sick.

I miss them,
The little things in life.

When people look at someone who’s disabled,
When they find out what ails them,
They say that they’ll
Learn
To appreciate the obvious
Like walking and running.

But that’s hardly what people take for granted.

That girl
Cannot feel the warmth of the water dripping from the shower head
On her legs;
It’s something most of you experience
Every.
Single.
Day.

No one would give it a second thought,
And yet she’d kill to be able to feel it
Just once more.

It might not seem like much,
Since she can’t feel the wind traveling through her hair
As she runs,
Or move anywhere
Without pushing the metal rims
On hard rubber wheels.

And yet,
When she sees the water
Slashing across her lifeless legs
Every day,
The warmth is what she imagines and longs for.
Not walking.

You write with your dominant hand
Every
Single
Day.

You use it to write out checks,
To scribble out a grocery list,
To write a quick note to your mom:
“I’m at Jane’s house”.

You’ve written like that since kindergarten;
There’s no reason to give it
A second thought.

But I miss it.

I miss writing with my right hand,
But I can’t.

Paralysis has ruined it
And it’s doubtful it’ll be
“Fixed”.

Yes, it’s the little things that hurt the most;
We may never know them again.

It’s the little things that make my heart ache,
That make me the most nostalgic.

It’s the little things I most often wish to have back.

The minuscule,
“Unimportant”
Things are the ones we do
Every day.

The things that are part of a routine,
The ones we are most used to,
Are small puzzle pieces in life
That leave holes
When taken away.

And we want to find those pieces,
To put them back where they belong
Because they create a sense
Of normalcy.

Because when so much of your life has been taken away,
When so much is missing,
You crave the little things
Day
After
Day.

Chronic Illness, Disability, Personal Experiences, Transverse Myelitis

The Worst Parts

When you’re diagnosed with TM (or anything similar), and you’re paralyzed, you freak out and wonder if it’s forever. Because being paralyzed, being “trapped” in a body that can’t move the way you want it to, seems like the worst thing ever. You don’t think it could happen to YOU, and when it does it’s scary. But it’s easy to adapt to, easy to get used to. Sure, it’s not ideal; I mean, no one wants to be in a wheelchair. No one wants to be unable to walk, run, jump, and all that. Nobody wants that part of their life taken away, but when it happens, it doesn’t end up being that bad. The pain, fatigue, flare-ups, etc. are what really make you miserable. You can do anything an able-bodied person can do when you’re disabled; it just takes some creativity sometimes. But the other complications are what really hold you back and make you feel trapped. That’s what bothers me daily, what I wish every day to escape from.

Chronic Illness, Disability, Poems

Lost Childhood

As a young child,

Your biggest worries

Are the weather-

Will it rain today?-

And which annoying sibling

Stole your toy.

 

As a young teen,

Your biggest worries

Are clothes

And friends

And homework.

Other than that,

You have your life ahead of you.

 

What do you want to be when you grow up?

You get many more years

To think about that.

 

Who’s your best friend?

It may change soon, it may not.

Your answer might not be what it was a month ago.

But you have fun regardless,

Fun with the day’s BFF.

 

What will you wear for picture day?

Will it be a dress or a skirt,

Jeans or leggings?

In a year that will not matter;

You have your life ahead of you.

 

No problems as a young teen,

Young and in middle school,

Or as a little kid,

Playful and innocent,

Should last.

 

They’re temporary.

 

You’re young, you’re naรฏve.

 

You think it will last,

The care-free nature of childhood.

 

You feel old,

And yet you don’t truly need to worry.

 

You shouldn’t have to worry about

Adults in white coats

And stethoscopes,

 

Thin white sheets

On a button-filled bed,

 

Tests and tests and tests

To tell you what’s wrong.

 

Pills to make you feel better.

 

You shouldn’t have to worry about

Whether or not you’ll get better.

Whether or not your life will begin again,

Whether or not these fears will last

The rest of your life.

 

You don’t think they will last.

 

Why should they?

 

They never have before

 

But slowly you are forced to realize,

As a child,

That they’re not going to leave.

 

They’ll stay with you forever,

Unlike 6th grade picture day

Or a failed math quiz.

 

Unlike a lost toy,

Or wet clothes.

 

They’re forced to grow up,

Forced to mature beyond their time.

 

One day

We might find a cure,

A cure for illnesses

Affecting children.

 

One day

We might find cures,

And save the innocent, necessary childhood

Of many.

 

We can only hope.

And believe.

And pray.

And be aware.

Chronic Illness, Disability, Poems, Transverse Myelitis

Daily Battle

American Revolution.

Civil War.

World War I.

 

What do they have in common?

 

Pain.

Violence.

Suffering.

Fatigue.

Fear.

 

My war

Is not unlike those.

 

There are fights.

 

All day every day,

I battle.

 

I battle the enemy,

Hoping to win.

 

It lasts a long time.

 

I get no sleep;

I am always tired,

But the pain

Keeps me awake.

 

Strength is needed,

Strength to thrust the sword

Or hold up the gun.

 

Strength

To fight back.

 

Energy is drained.

 

Why so quickly?

 

Energy is drained,

And I wish I could take a break

To re-charge.

 

Can’t concentrate

On anything else.

 

I can’t leave the enemy

To fight me, defenseless.

It won’t win.

It can’t.

 

Every second spent distracted,

I am hit

And wounded.

 

Pain

Shoots through my body.

 

I am knocked down,

But I get back up.

 

Energy is drained

Some more.

 

I just want a break,

Just for one second.

 

The lights dim outside,

And it’s ready to sleep,

Ready to forget the battles.

 

But the enemy attacks

At my weakest point.

 

Why didn’t I see it?

 

I spend the night

Fighting some more.

 

And the cycle begins,

Everyday more exhausting

And painful

Than the last.

 

When the sun comes out,

When I see a moment of light,

When I knock them down for just barely long enough,

I see

What makes it all worth it.

I see

What I’m fighting for.

 

I fight

For my dignity.

 

For my family,

For my friends.

 

I fight,

To help others

Who battle as well.

 

I fight

For my pride,

 

For my God,

 

For my life.

 

And I am grateful

That I have reasons,

That life is not just an endless battle.

 

For the battle is inside of me,

And I cannot escape.

Insecurities, Poems

Unknown Future

I lie awake

When sleep won’t come

And think.

Think about life,

How this essay

And history test

And physics problems

Won’t matter a year from now.

 

When I think about the future

In this way,

It’s blissful.

It seems

So simple,

So much happier

And brighter.

 

The future is unknown, and

As long as it stays distant,

I can pretend

It’ll be perfect.

 

But I’m kidding myself.

For when I think of the pain,

When I remember that

It likely won’t leave,

My life

Seems long, and

The future looks bleak.

 

The future is unknown, and

When I think of it in this way,

That there will be many more

Arguments, more

Stubbed toes and hangnails,

Broken friendships

And betrayal;

More sorrow,

More grief,

More disappointment,

More pain,

 

It looks no different.

 

Life seems an endless battle,

Day after day after day

We all fight.

This will never change.

 

But I think about the good things.

 

There will be more hugs,

More kisses,

More birthday presents and

Wishes.

More sweet chocolate,

Sipping lemonade in the sun,

And heart-warming books.

More love,

More happiness,

More warmth,

More fun,

More LIFE.

 

And the future no longer looks bleak;

Life no longer seems too long.

 

I don’t dread what’s to come, because

The future is unknown

For a reason.

 

As I lie awake I think

About what I look forward to,

And smile as I drift to sleep,

 

And dream about the future.

Friendship, School/Career, Short Stories

Light in the Darkness

My friend, Angela, asked me to write something for her. I don’t know what sparked this story, considering I’ve never experienced divorce or anything like that. This story is entirely too dramatic, but that’s okay! ๐Ÿ™‚
Blues and greens and browns swirled from the tip of my favorite brush as I stroked it across the canvas.

I didn’t quite know what the end result would be. I never knew. All I knew was the calming peacefulness that filled me while I painted.

It took my mind off of things. Off of… Well, I didn’t want to think about it.

“Chloe? You’ve been in there all week. Please talk to me!”

I ignored her. She was trying to drag me out and make me think. But it was too painful.

I squeezed a tube of red paint. A satisfying blob came out. I swirled it with a little white.

“Chloe, you can’t stay in there forever. Spring break ends tomorrow… You have to go to school.”

Ignored once again. I continued to cover the canvas in small, delicate strokes. I heard a large sigh from behind the door, and footsteps fading as my mom gave up and walked away.

~~~~~~~~

It’s amazing just how quickly one’s life can turn upside-down.

One moment, I was happy.

The next, I was shattered.

School that day had been normal. Boring, as usual, but I was glad it was Friday, glad spring break was just hours away.

I remember the weather. It had rained earlier, but was sunny by the time school was out.

My bus splashed through some of the remaining puddles as it approached my bus stop.

I got off and skipped home. Spring was my favorite season, and I was happy it was finally here.

I opened the door and kicked off the shoes.

“I’m hoomeee–” I loudly announced, but stopped in my tracks.

My parents stood stiffly in front of me. Both were paper white, lips in a straight line. Hands awkwardly at their sides.

“Is everything alright?” I asked, looking from one parent to the other. My dad glanced at my mom, and she nodded stiffly. They gestured at me to follow them, so I did.

We approached the dining room table, and I sat down next to my little sister and older brother. Nobody said a word.

“I need to talk to you all about something,” my mom said softly, slowly, after taking a deep breath.

All of a sudden, I knew what was coming. Scenes flashed through my mind, memories of shouting and arguing after dark, keeping me up at night.

“You- you’re getting divorced,” I whispered, looking again from parent to parent. Tears flowed from my eyes when neither one of them said I was wrong. My mom just nodded stiffly.

“We just need you guys to know that we love you all very much, but–” my dad started, rehearsed. I stood up, turning my chair over. My little sister, Cassie, flinched at the noise.

“Don’t give me this cliche crap of a speech that you found on the internet. Shut. Up!” I screamed, running up to my room. Slamming the door. Turning the lock. Spilling tubes of paint as I clumsily tried to squeeze them onto the easel. Swirling paint around to form a picture, any picture, even though it was morphed by the stream of tears.

I didn’t come out of my room for the rest of the week except to pee. I didn’t eat. I didn’t sleep. I just cranked out picture after picture as my mom pleaded me to come out for just a second.

I dreamt of this scene the last night of break. I woke up screaming, relieved for a second that it was just a dream. Then filled with dread when I realized it wasn’t.

~~~~~~~

I did go to school the next day, but I left the house without a word. I put on a mask at school, fake joy for all my friends. I joked and laughed with them, hiding the pain.

When I got home, though, I was mute again. I walked hurriedly up to my room, backpack, coat, and all, and shut and locked the door.

And I painted. And painted.

I didn’t do my homework. All I was willing to eat was lunch at school, and the occasional bite of dinner Cassie or my older brother Cole would slide under the door.

The teachers started getting concerned. But I didn’t care. My parents threatened to take me to a psychiatrist, or to a counselor at the very least. But how could they, when I was locked in my room?

All that kept me sane was my painting.

The divorce became official two months later.

This life I had chosen for myself lasted three whole months.

~~~~~~~

“Did you sign up for the art show, Chlo?” My best friend Eryn asked me one day. It was a couple weeks after court, and about two and a half months since I’d first gotten the news, and my life had changed forever.

I shrugged at Eryn’s question.

“Not yet. I don’t know if I want to do it,” I muttered. Eryn sighed.

“Hon, this can’t go on forever. I know you’ve been through a tough time and that sucks! But you need to get over it.”

I shrugged again, fighting off tears. I knew she was right.

“I- I guess I’ll do it,” I said softly. My friend smiled warmly and gave me a big hug.

“I’ll help you get through this. Don’t worry. Now, first things first…. Let’s get you signed up for that art show!” Eryn said, taking hold of my hand and dragging me to sign-ups.

~~~~~~~

For awhile, I simply pushed the thought of the art show to the back of my mind and attempted to continue doing what I had been doing.

Meanwhile, Eryn invited me over nearly every night to talk, do homework, eat snacks, and play basketball and soccer outside, one-on-one.

Slowly, my teachers took notice. My grades were improving. I participated more in class, if ever so slightly. My mood was better; I was talking to my friends more.

The pain caused by the divorce was almost…. Forgotten. For the help Eryn had given me, I was eternally grateful.

~~~~~~~

Before I knew it, the art show was in a short one and a half weeks. I still had no clue what I was going to present!

For the next week and a half, I was kept busy by art. Nothing, however, would satisfy me.
Thanks to Eryn, I actually felt the urge to do well. I really wanted to win the thing, to see a shiny first place ribbon hanging on my work!

So I painted.

And painted.

And painted.

And painted.

I kept throwing paint-covered canvas after canvas to the side. Most were good… But not what I was looking for. They were boring, even slightly cliche.

But I kept going.

~~~~~~~

“AHHHHH!”

I heard screaming and jolted awake. I tried opening my eyes, but they were still fuzzy with sleep.

It was only then that I realized that the screaming was coming from my own mouth.

I sighed and lay back down, head resting comfortably on my soft, fluffy pillow. That same dream had come to me again.

I looked at my clock. I groaned when I realized I had 2 minutes until my alarm would go off.

I lifted the covers off and swung my feet off the side. I switched the light on, and came face to face with my calendar. Today’s date was circled. My stomach dropped.

Today was the art show.

~~~~~~~

The school gym was hot, and I was sweating under my tshirt and skirt.

I glanced at the clock. The show would start in a few minutes. I turned around to make sure my table was set perfectly.

My large canvas was covered in a cream-colored sheet. It stood upright on top of a white table. I had decorated the area with simple flowers to add to the effect of the painting, and a card with my name and title of my piece was at the front of the table for people to see.

The way our art show worked was a little different from other ones. The guests sat on the bleachers as a teacher walked around the gym. She went to each person and said their name and the title of their piece, and then had them whisk the sheet off. Afterwards, the guests walked around to get a better look of the pieces and voted on the best one. The judges counted the votes and made an overall decision about the winner. So the guests’ votes didn’t completely nominate the winner, but they helped solidify the judges’ decisions.

I held my breath. One minute left.

“Welcome to the 34th annual Washington High art show!” The art teacher, Mrs. Travis, said.

I bit my lip as she walked around the circle of students, revealing their art. Some were…. Well, let’s face it. Some were pretty awful, and I knew I had a chance winning over them. But others? Others were simply amazing.

“Here’s Sophie Rysk, with her sculpture ‘Magical Dreams'”.

Oh crap, Sophie’s was good. And, worse yet, she was only a few people away from me. Mrs. Travis was getting closer!

I breathed in deeply through my mouth, letting it out from my mouth a few seconds later.

Get a grip, Chloe, I told myself.

The art show had never mattered much to me before. Why was I suddenly so obsessed with winning?

“And now, here’s Opal Green with her drawing ‘Childhood Fantasies.'”

As the girl next to me whisked the cover off her picture, it suddenly dawned on me. The reason this was so important to me.

“Thank you, Opal. That is lovely”.

I wanted to make my parents proud.

“We now have Chloe Hawk with her painting ‘Light in the Darkness!'”

I took a deep breath, finally looking up at the crowd, where dozens of eyes stared at me expectantly.

My right hand gripped the worn, cream-colored sheet. And there in the crowd, I saw my parents.

Sitting there, in the bleachers.

Smiling.

As I yanked the sheet off the glowing picture of Eryn, the one who helped me get through all of this, I realized something.

My parents didn’t care if I won. They were proud of me no matter what.

And life would get better after all.

Insecurities, Personal Experiences, School/Career

A Day Better Spent

Today I blew off working on a big English essay to help my little sister learn to ride her bike, going to lunch with my mom and friends, and holding my sister’s hand while she got her ears pierced.

There’s part of me, probably the bigger part, that cringes when I think of how much time I wasted, time that could have been spent perfecting that essay.

But you know what?

In reality, that time was much better spent with what I did.

In 20 years, what will I likely remember more: the problems in Les Miserables, or my baby sister growing up?

Hopefully the latter.

Why is our society like this? Why have we decided that it’s ok to make the average high school student’s life literally revolve around school? Don’t get me wrong, I think school is really important. Learning is important, and that’s the primary focus of schools. But the whole system has evolved into something more horrifying. It’s terrible that kids (yes, they’re still kids) think that they can make or break the whole rest of their lives with what they do now, in school.

Yes, learning is important. But stressing out every single moment of every single day about tests, grades, homework, etc., is not. What’s important is to take school seriously, yes (because it does matter and it is important), but also to take a break once in a while. It’s important to lift your head up and take that breath of fresh air in the form of other things you enjoy: music, drawing, writing, spending time with loved ones. Because if you don’t, you’ll surely drown.

I’m likely not going to change my ways because of this. Tomorrow I’m going to spend hours finishing that essay, I’m sure. It’ll probably cut into most of my sleep! But I’ll remember to realize that experiences are okay. Spending time with family is okay. Maybe I’ll take a break, and we’ll try that bike one more time.

(Update: A year later, I read what I wrote above, and realize that I got an “A” on that essay. And my sister has mastered the bike.)