One of the most significant barricades to healing within the medical communities is the omnipresent one size fits all approach. Though many medical professionals proclaim individualized treatment, few deliver. Each person requires a unique comprehensive treatment plan. Therefore, when people ask me for advice and details about what treatment I’m currently utilizing, I am newly guarded; the emulation of what works for me or what doesn’t has no indication for outcomes for another.
Beneath a tidal wave blueI almost ceased to be
Waiting for somebody to come die with me
Tucked like treasure deep inside, my dismay over his absence I dare not hide
The drip of time like sweet honey, like sweet honey
Who will kneel by my bedside as I cease to be, cease to be
Oh, the drip of time like sweet honey
Tossed like a ragdoll among the deepest sea, where else in the world would he want to be?
As the angles of my bones cut further every day, why, oh why didn’t you stay? The drip of Time like sweet honey, like sweet honey. Who will kneel by my bedside as I cease to be? Won’t you be the somebody to come die with me?
Two different kinds of gone is all we will ever be, the last dregs of our togetherness fall away from me. Time, oh time, like the sweet trip of honey, a life spent searching for somebody to die with me.
Hey ya’ll! I’m grateful to be a Guest Contributor to Chico State’s Revelare Ezine! Check it out! This is the debut for some of my never before seen multimedia art, and what could be a better venue then my own alma mater?!
I will not settle for chronic. Much to the chagrin of many doctors, I am transparent in my mission for complete remission. I haven’t traversed traumatic territory, nerves ablaze to settle for management of symptoms. I do not persevere in the company of myriad tyrants buried within my organs subscribing to expectations of mediocre. I exist according to a paradigm of healing, freedom and surround myself with others who mirror the abundance I envision for myself.
Original design by Erin Parochka, adapted by Briana Beaver
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The chronic illness community often feels a need to prove that our conditions are serious enough to be believed in yet not devastating enough to rob us of our humanity. Social constructs of illness rooted in perpetual wrongness can be made right. The dehumanization of a strange matriculation in the chronic illness subculture stagnates against a barricade of criticism. The perpetuation of wrongness strikes like stones, bruising whatever shreds of self-respect still persist.