I’m doing my best, but very rarely does that satisfy me.
I still have this picture in my head,
This idea,
Of the uber-cici, the ultimate me,
Who can do all the things all the time and never slow,
Never stop.
This is very problematic and unrealistic,
I’m aware,
But along with its poison it came with hope-
The hope that I could, I would, one day,
Be this person I’ve created in my brain:
The ideal cici.

That surgery a few weeks ago,
The one that was supposed to answer my questions,
Threw me so far into the deep end
I could no longer see land.
It left me with more questions,
And less hope,
And although I’m hanging on by a thread,
I have to admit
I’m finally trying to let go.

It’s a funeral of sorts,
A eulogy for the person in my head
Who could have existed
But because of my chronic pain
Never will.
The death of an idea.

Maybe that sounds dramatic,
Because it is fucking dramatic.
I spend my life in varying degrees of pain,
I take a handful of pills a day,
Can’t work full time,
Schedule in rest days.
I barely sleep even though I’m always tired.
The doctors don’t know what’s wrong with me.

I’m not feeling sorry for myself.
This isn’t pity,
It’s realism.
This picture of what’s possible,
The ideal me,
Though she once felt like hope
Brings only pain.
She is a lie I told myself to get through.
Now, I must let go.
To be free,
I need to recognize my limitations,
Let go of old ideas.
Bury her.