Am I the same?

Who am I? Do I even know anymore?

When the feelings and thoughts of who one is:

Yourself; your deepest core, your coreness;

It slips away—

Not on a slide, but in treacle,

As it trickle, trickle, trickles away.

Try as you might, to catch it.

But it still slips away.

I could articulate,

I could recall,

My memories were sound,

My brain was connected to my mouth.

My body listened.

My body soared in that marathon—

Muscle pain, tendons sore, at least it was familiar.

I had done and did more than I even thought I could.

I could.

I could.

I once could.

But what was wrought, rotted coreness.

What did it matriculate, for others to avoid a safety net?

It took from me. It took a life to soon of a grand parent.

A year later, it tried to take me, to take—

What was me, what was memory, what was activity,

—it all seemed no more.

Near Death’s door, on the floor;

“I’m fine!” Breathless; mustered words from me.

“No ambulance needed."

Not that one would come; not in times like these.

It stole from me.

It stole my activity.

It stole my memory.

It stole my breath.

It stole me.

All that remained was hopelessness,

Hopelessness and pain.

Not even a memory remained.

Apathy.

Wait.

It gave me apathy.

Negative; it’s seen to be something to rid yourself of.

Yet, if not for it, I wouldn't have survived the worst of it.

Apathy is absence.

Apathy was all that was left of me.

Apathy guided me.

What is me?

Whisper; "I’m still here."

Yet, I do not recognise me.

Am I the anger of what was stolen from me?

Am I the passion that fired my way through the darkest of hours or days,

Weeks, months—years?

What is left, when I tally?

Memories are harder to form and keep.

Words are no longer connected so seamlessly.

Things I that enjoyed, —said in a whisper:*even those as soft as knitting*, cannot be done without enduring the agony.

A dozen pills a day, with hands can barely pick them up with ease.

Reading is draining and writing breaks my eyes.

The same TV show runs on repeat, so that I do not feel so alone.

But a smile, a laugh—not for long—but still, that was left.

Snow is a no for me now—

I cannot do cold.

I cannot even swim.

Or shower alone.

To be reminded “It's hot, blow on your food”,

Or "Don't forget to take your nap.”

Who am I left?

Go for a walk? —When and how?—

It’s not the same walking on a frame.

Alone in my mind.

Alone in my body.

Alone in my bed.

It feels as alone as a prison cell does.

If a prison cell shrank, day by day.

Muscles spasm, the pain of the jerks,

Bones ached and movements carved pain.

Limbs shut off—I've fallen more than Niagara Falls.

Alone with a pain, pain that was not familiar.

***

Sunshine rose. Hallelujah!

Finally, I regained my breath.

It only took a year of my life.

A garden to grow, the green to heal—

My body's mind felt so pleased and calm.

I sat in the sun and I touched the rose's petals.

I remeber this: I smelt coffee. I tasted it.

It wasn't for long, gone quicker than came.

But I remembered it.

I accept the wheelchair, I’m pushed for a walk.

It's not the same, but at least I got to experience.

It felt like I finally got to participate in life—

I wasn't just existing—it was nice.

Pushed to gardens, and pushed through them.

It was really nice.

But know, if not for the apathy, I wouldn't have survived it.

I leaned into it.

It gave me a chance to not care about what was taken from me.

It gave me a chance to rest and be still.

I don’t want to yet another pill, to take it away from me.

Apathy is friend.

Apathy is company.

Apathy gave me rest.

Without rest, I would never have regained.

I would never have gained back my will, my breath, nor a sliver of me.

I am not the same.

Nor will I ever be.

It's so much harder, me being on the other side of me.

But all that is left is forward. Don’t look back.

My body, my mind, my ‘me-ness’, I might never regain them back.

Not in full.

But I will not give up.

The life I could have had is gone,

But I’m still here.