Pss. 147: 3 He healeth the broken in heart, and bindeth up their wounds.
As a child I had great penmanship. I was always so proud of the neatness I loaned the page. I could doodle with the best of them, until recently that is. I seriously think God put the computer into my life because He knew this day would come.
I can no longer write like I used to and it is a challenge to make out a legible grocery list. I do have hope though, since a friend of mine Leona, wrote her entire novel using the eraser end of a pencil in spite of her disability. I’ve known her many years (online) but did not know she was handicapped in any way. She never let that shape who she is and her book (5 star reviews I might add) is proof, nothing should hinder our dreams.
It is so weird how you can ‘know’ someone for ten years and not really ‘know’ him or her at all. I think that is people’s perception of me. They think they know me but really, don’t know me at all.
People kid around and don’t think I hurt. They torment me unintentionally hurting me, but that is who they see, a strong woman you can josh and tease. I think I’ve set myself up for this but really it is okay; I get a wealthy amount of poetry from it all.
I write a lot of angst-ridden poetry and some will say, I sure hope you’re not feeling that right now. Well, if I wrote it, I’m feeling it! All of my poetry is me! Every emotion, every rhyme, every season, it is ALL me.
Can I ask you a question? If you saw someone in a wheelchair or with a limp leg, would you ask them what is wrong? No? Would you ask them again the next time you saw them after they told you the first time?
Acts 4: 22 For the man was above forty years old, on whom this miracle of healing was shewed.
I hit this stumbling block a few times. I’ve explained I have lower-lumbar-facet-joint-arthritis, but the very next time they see me, it’s like they expected some kind of miracle and I would be all-better. Not that I don’t pray for a miracle and certainly I’ll shout it to the world when it happens, but no, no miracle has happened here.
Can’t you get help, they say? Would a chiropractor be able to do something? Just short of screaming, why aren’t you better yet?
This is the very reason my poetry is my saving grace. My online friends see me as a happy-go-lucky Christian spirited woman. People in my physical realm see me as broken; once being whole and now is broken. I don’t even think Steven and Adam understand wholly what is wrong with me. They see me wobble, they see me writhe in pain, they see me every single day, struggle to do what so-called ‘normal’ people do.
Allow me to answer your questions. I could get help, if I had money. A chiropractor could probably help temporarily, but again, if I had money. And why am I not better? Well you guessed it, because I have no money. I will not be a leech off of the government (and honestly, I don’t even think they could help ME, I’m broken) so my options are few to none.
I thought this second car was my doorway to getting a job (making my very own money!) so I could feel somewhat human. But what can I, disabled, do? I can lose myself in poetry, THAT’S what. I can blog! Please, this is no pity party, I just want to explain why poetry is so close to me; it is what keeps me sane in this insane world!
The last time I checked, arthritis is still a chronic illness. Sure meds could pacify my problem, with money. So there you have it, the poet within is screaming to write! So if you see gut-wrenching pain filled poetry, it means I am in pain. If you see peace-filled poems, I am at peace with my disability.
Poetry is my healer. THAT is what this change is all about; I’m on the road. It’s a long winding road with many twists and turns and while I may feel totally alone and isolated, I have God, my poetry, and myself!
Prov. 16: 24 Pleasant words are as an honeycomb, sweet to the soul, and health to the bones.