Land of the sick, home of the broken

It’s been in the land of the sick for a long time. At first I was an obedient guest, but I’ve overstayed my welcome.

In this land, there are so many rooms and houses I’ve spent time in. For a while, I was pounding death’s door. My mind was in turmoil, my heart faintly beating, and my spirit was ready to be embraced by sweet death, an end to the suffering. I’ve been in the room of denial, pretending that my body and my mind weren’t altered, and masking my pain with a faint smile, which friends couldn’t see past. I visited the house of OCD, where everyday activities brought about scary thoughts and images, and they whirled around in my head for hours, leaving me gasping for a moment of peace and solitude. I’ve spent hours yelling in the room of unforgiveness about the injustice of my circumstance, berating the ones who abandoned me, and seething at the doctors responsible for my suffering. I covered the walls with the names of those who refused to comfort me, those claiming to love me, but left me in my time of need. I cried to God to send a miracle, but I faced His silence. I sat in the pit of despair many nights, looking for a ray of light, or a helping hand. My tears mixed with the dirt on my face, and I turned black from all the pain.

The land of sickness, the home of the broken was an unexpected stop in my life. And even though the place pulled at me to make it a permanent destination, I planned an escape. With the help of my co-conspirator, my little sister, my angel in disguise, I forged a path where none existed. I packed my belongs and took an early flight to an island known for healing, dreaming of feeling the sunshine on my skin again.

I long to join the land of the living, and with God’s help, it seems more possible every increasing day I spend here. Even though my sickness hangs off of me like an old ratty sweatshirt, I sit in the sunshine, and it finds a way to pierce through my darkness. I face the ocean and my eyes often fill with tears thinking about the past. Yet, I look around and remember my progress. Though my mind feels foreign to me, reality feels distant, and I struggle to think. My bones and my muscles feel stiff, worn out. But I continue to fight. Everyday, I fight to join the land of the living, the land of the free. I’m braving new territory while holding my father’s hand, though hesitantly.

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