Hi all, this is an original poem I wrote reflecting on my daily life with several chronic illnesses. It is a bit depressing, but it has some things I think need to be said.
I’m Tired of….
An Original Poem by Meghan Bayer
I’m tired of waking up in feeling like I’m in hell with evil, diabolical, burning pain.
I’m tired of people feeling bad for me and giving me looks of pity.
I’m tired of feeling like a spectator in my own life watching life pass me by.
I’m tired of putting my pride aside to ask for assistance.
I’m tired of feeling like I am slowly losing my mind.
I’m tired of being a recluse.
I’m tired of brain fog.
I’m tired of treatments that cause additional discomfort.
I’m tired of treatments that don’t work.
I’m tired of getting my back injected 30 times every 3-4 weeks.
I’m tired of choking down foul, gut-churning medications.
I’m tired of pretending that everything is okay, when that couldn’t be further from the truth.
I’m tired of having to cancel plans with friends because I am too sick or in too much pain to walk.
I’m tired of needing a wheelchair sometimes.
I’m tired of wearing walking boots and braces.
I’m tired of using crutches that chafe my arms.
I’m tired of needles.
I’m tired of losing friends because they can’t cope.
I’m tired of sobbing uncontrollably from pain.
I’m tired of having to miss classes for admissions and appointments.
I’m tired of getting poked and stuck with IVs.
I’m tired of snarky physical therapists.
I’m tired of thinking what the future has in store for me.
I’m tired of worrying whether or not I’ll graduate college.
I’m tired of stressing about medical bills.
I’m tired of spending more time in the hospital than I do at home.
I’m tired of not being able to run.
I’m tired of my joints subluxing.
I’m tired of hitting my head when I pass out and crash to the floor.
I’m tired of having to be strong for everyone, even when I feel so small and weak.
I’m tired of being tired and I am sick of being sick.
Through it all, God is there holding my hand as we walk across the beach leaving footprints in the sand. Sometimes, there are two sets of footprints. But when there is only one set, it is then that he carried me in his strong arms and scarred hands with my head resting over his gently beating heart.
“Keep your chin up and charge the mountain,”