Poem about being asked "How are you"? Knowing they don't want a true answer. |
HOW ARE YOU? RSD patient? (or anyone suffering chronic pain) You know how "they" ask you that every day question the one we all ask... with simplest intention... How are you? That's the one! It's said over and over, just rolls off the tongue. No one really wants to know, but I must answer it true. Does anyone desire to hear how we "actually" do? Or do they look at us and see nothing wrong? Do they think we are fine just getting along? If they only knew our day and how each one's begun... it starts with the moment that we see the rising sun... to the pill cabinet first where we silently retreat for we cannot start our day without meds under our feet. Once we have swallowed that dismal costly lot, we journey on into our day with the little energy we've got... and if we are lucky, just maybe for that day... the pills might kick in to take the misery away... Even if only for just moments in time, I could feel like my old self again sweet, pain free, sublime. But most of my days it simply cannot be. Though I may look fine a fire burns inside of me. It frankly will not matter how many pills I swallow, they sadly cannot do their job for the pain will cunningly follow. You tell me that my meds are bad and I should get off all those pills... before I become some derelict addict downing them all for cheap thrills. What choice have I left? To alone endure this pain? Do you know some great alternative that will cause it to abstain? Do you know what my daily wish might be ... to simply set it all aside, say *poof*, I'm better and leap off this freaking ride? So you think I am cured... because I've gained back my walk and when I talk of my pain you believe it's all talk! I promise you this friend it is NOT in my head! When those words escape your lips you cause my tears to shed. Oh "they" say "How are you?"... but they don't really want to know. I can see it in their eyes when I honestly answer them so. They've grown weary of my rambling for I daily must seem to complain. There are many times I too am tired of feeling the need to explain. It has consumed who I once was. It has robbed myself of me. Every pain filled day is my bitter reminder of all that I never will be. So please... do me a favor... just don't ask me How are you dear? We both so clearly know you don't really want to hear. Then you'll need not give me more cliches, there'll be no need to steer clear... Just don't ask me that question... For my answer must be sincere. 5/11/07 copyright T.L.Tobac reprint with permission |