Do You Think I Chose This?

Raijanna Poems

I love me. I love me so much. But you think I woke up one day and said, “Yes, let me be sick.” Let me have headaches almost every day. Let me throw up. Let me feel weak. Let me drink medicine every single day. Let me go to the doctor again and again. Let me stay home for a week. Maybe two. Let me miss school, miss normal, miss being like everyone else. You think I chose that? You think I thought, “My life is too simple, let me make it harder.” Let me wake up in pain. Let me cry. Let me feel my body hurt even after sleep, because sleep doesn’t fix it. Let me pray every day. No, beg every day. For almost eleven years. You think I never prayed? You think I never asked God, “Please… take this away?” They tell me, “If you don’t think about it, it won’t come.” Like I like thinking about it. Like I sit here and invite the pain in. Like I enjoy talking about being sick. Do you think I like this? Every time I try to study, every time I try to learn, to put something in my brain, I get sick. My head starts hurting. My body says no. So what am I supposed to do? They say, “You’re lucky. You get to stay home.” Lucky? Nobody sees the truth of staying home. The exhaustion. The pain. The lying in bed, still hurting. The kind of tired that sleep can’t fix. Nobody sees calling home because you don’t feel okay. Nobody sees going home just to feel the same pain in a different room. And when I don’t say I’m sick, when I stay quiet, it’s because I already know what they’ll say. “You’re pretending.” Pretending? You think I chose this life? You think I said, “Yes, let me take medicine forever. Let me feel pain forever. Let me live like this forever.” You think I like it? I hate it. I hate being sick. I hate my sickness. I hate what it does to me. I hate having epilepsy. I hate having laagasale. I hate the fear, the kind that makes me pray before I even stand up, because I don’t know if I’ll fall. I hate the crying. The everyday crying. The kind that comes because I have this, because it won’t leave, because it’s been years and it’s still here. Nobody likes being weak. Nobody likes throwing up. Nobody likes living like this. And the worst part? Nobody understands. Not really. They don’t feel it in their bones. They don’t feel it in their head. They don’t live in this body. But I do. Every day. And still, I love me. Even when I hate this. Even when I hate everything about this. I love me. Because this pain… this sickness… It’s not something I chose. But I’m still here carrying it anyway.