The Reality of Me

I came to the realization

when I was in fourth grade.

that words hurt more than than the pain that my eyes made.

It was the summer before my 10th birthday

I awoke one morning and all I got to say were cries of pain.

The doctors thought I was insane.

They had seen nothing like this.

Turns out only 14 other kids in the world had what I had.

Bilateral posterior scleritis.

None of the other kids got their sight back,

My intrinsic nature is to attack the darkness.

Close your eyes, shut them tight.

It was constantly night.

I endured visits and tests

I was basically put on house arrest.

The medications came by the bottles.

Max dosages, put on full throttle.

Choke and swallow.

Prednisone, the gaining weight zone

age 9 and 180 pounds.

The vulgar names came at me like vicious hounds.  

The names I got called seared into my skin.

Where do i even begin?

Squirrel cheeks. Fatty. Ugly.

If only you really knew me.  

Methotrexate, that’s right.

Started to lose my hair and where do I go from there?

I sure as hell didn’t go to school.

That is where the bullies rule.

8 months into the recovery and I could not tell what hurt more,

The pain in my eyes or the names that I had to endure.

Who ever claimed that sticks and stones will break bones, but words will never hurt, must have been deaf.

Because when I was blind all I had was my hearing left.

What I heard determined beauty.

The ugly spread the cruelty.

If you close your eyes and shut them tight.

Who would be beautiful?

Who would be right?

Nearly one year after I lost my sight, I was healed. I have been in remission for 7 years, but I continue to shed tears.

I have had the vision that so many have not.

I am sharing my story so that people realize, it is not just a thought.

I am eighteen and I know mean.

I know hate

I have felt irate.

When people see me, they know not the real me

Because sight is simply the skin

Once you hear me, you will know what happens within.

You will know that when I don’t show up to school,

It is not because I am simply skipping

It is because my mother wouldn’t listen when I told her she had enough

It is because some mornings I cannot conjure enough energy to bluff

It is because the anxiety medicine wore off too soon

And my hand is shaking so bad that I can’t even lift the spoon.

My teachers question me and I make a joke out of it,

Simply because I cannot handle it.

Reality