The Attack- TW- HEALTH ISSUES-
A poem by Olivia Williams
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That Thursday,
my legs met the floor.
A thump echoed in the elevator—
I couldn’t stand, any longer.
I barely remember.
One moment, I felt like I was going to pass out.
The next—
the floor met my exhausted body,
as my feet succumbed to gravity,
like a rock sinking into deep water.
My arms went limp.
My body went numb.
My brain felt like it was colliding into a wall—
or like someone was banging on it
like a drum.
Like strings were cut,
nerves were severed,
the ones that told my body:
"Work, or you're a coward!"
Everything from my neck down
forgot who was in control.
My body forgot who it was connected to—
it had a mind of its own.
I have reflux
Anemia too
I get attacks frequently
They literally knock me down
So DONT play me for a fool
My fingers felt cold,
turning to frost.
My lips were chapped and dry,
a crevasse so deep,
I couldn’t deny.
I was a ghost slowly lying there—
until a chair came.
Sight slipped away
as I was wheeled the other way.
First blurry—then gone.
My hearing too.
Like a blackout curtain appeared,
and I couldn’t tell who was who.
These voices I recognized—warped,
like they were underwater.
My breath was a battle.
My lungs begged for air,
but it refused to enter.
And the air I had
escaped faster than I could hold it.
Like a hammer on a locked door—
sealed shut—
I couldn’t get out
of the cave I was in.
Water was filling my body.
I lost all sense of time
inside that darkness.
They asked me,
“Stay awake.”
But I wasn’t there.
I couldn’t hear—see—or reply.
All of that
had been stripped from me there.
I entered the office,
heard— the concerned voices,
the mumbles saying:
“You need to take care of yourself.”
“You need to eat.”
“But I throw it all up,” I say.
“So my body makes it to this point.”
The lights were too bright,
filling my grey void.
Then—
everything came back.
I heard my own voice.
Then a voice I recognized entered the room.
She looked at me and asked questions,
but she knew
I couldn’t speak yet.
Because my body felt like
I was swimming through glue.
I was on the edge of fainting,
on the edge of life.
Food and water made a thump beside me.
I fumbled it open—
took one bite,
then another,
and another—
waiting for my body to recharge.
Like a dead battery.
I don’t remember what it was.
It didn’t taste good—
but I didn’t care.
I just ate, and hoped
my body would spare.
I cried,
knowing my body had failed me
in front of everyone.
Not from pain.
There was no scream,
no giant collapse—
just a person
sliding to the ground
in an elevator,
trying to get help
before fading away.
This isn’t weakness.
Or drama.
This is war,
with no warning.
This is fighting
with no rules.
I fight for life every day.
I’m told,
“You don’t have much on your plate.”
But surviving is my chore.
Life is a game.
I played the wrong cards.
I forgot to eat and drink—
because my body forgot to tell me how.
It made me ***** it back.
So this is what I get.
This is surviving
in silence,
day by day,
hour by hour.
This is an attack.