“At the end of the day, we can endure much more than we think we can.” - Frida Kahlo
May is not only the month in which I’ll be graduating from college, but is also national fibromyalgia awareness month. It's a time for celebrating all of the hard work my friends and I have put in over the past four years. And it's also the time to raise awareness for the chronic illness which has stolen a part of me for a few years now. To be quite honest, there were so many times when I didn’t think I’d make it to this point. But even in my darkest, sickest days, I’ve always found the light at the end of the tunnel.
There's a Frida Kahlo quote that I always think of in hard times, which I've included above; we truly can endure more than we think we can because, at the end of the day, we always make it through! And whether it be through cooking, writing, singing, or laughing with friends, there’s always something to make my day just a little bit better.
There's a Frida Kahlo quote that I always think of in hard times, which I've included above; we truly can endure more than we think we can because, at the end of the day, we always make it through! And whether it be through cooking, writing, singing, or laughing with friends, there’s always something to make my day just a little bit better.
This past weekend was my senior Sherry Party (which is this big sort of party/event that freshman throw for seniors in the theatre department at my school), and today was my last day of class as an undergrad.
I've made it and am graduating in less than two weeks! And I can't believe it!
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| Sherry 2019 |
It feels like just yesterday I was a little freshman at my first Sherry. I had just declared my major about a month or so before—which I've since changed, but I'll still graduate from the same department, just with a B.A. in theatre studies now. I plan on pursuing my passions for writing and new work development in the coming years. And I hope to find a way to do so within the bounds of my other (many) interests, such as dramaturgy and arts education (though I have no idea where or how I will begin to do so!). BUT that's a discussion for another time and I know things will work out soon; they always do!!
I've never been one to share my writing if I don't have to. My poetry, more specifically, is usually super personal; I write more just to process feelings rather than to share it with an audience. But this seems like a good time to share a poem I've come back to with edits upon edits for a few months now. Words have become my best outlet for releasing pain over the past few years. I hope that someone out there might find some solace knowing that they aren't alone in their own battles, especially during this month!
Healing Heart
by Anastasia Arvanites
I’m sick of the doubt and fear
of all the tomorrow’s a new day’s
which I need remind myself.
Of the missing out and the
I’m okay’s which roll off
my tongue like custom.
With every visit
I grow more and more
numb than the last;
my hopes can only go so high
before they are shot back down
by that incessantly negative result
and its swath of comments to follow:
it’s all in your head
you’re fine
learn to live with it.
And again, I am left small and alone
sitting on the white, sterile table
feet dangling like a dead fish
expected to get back up and
move on with my day.
As if my tired heart wasn’t
just ripped out of my lifeless body
and thrown into the garbage
alongside the remnants of my hope.
As if I’m not fighting back the flood
of tears my tired heart has floated
down too many times before.
With every you don’t look sick and
it could be worse, again and again
this vessel which I am to call a body
erodes away rough and quick.
And I fear what will become of it.
One day, I woke up and was no longer
healthy. Healthy is nothing more
than a memory of a different life.
She is another girl, one whom I cannot recall.
This new life is different. It’s draining
and unpredictable. It’s taking care of
and nourishing my body. It’s saying no
if I have to, and I have to—often.
This sickness—mysterious and
vengeful—does not define me;
I am more than the fatigue which
fills my veins with lead.
I am more than the fog which
consumes my mind like wildfire.
I am more than the pain—the anxiety
which lays heavily on my soul.
Even in this world of mystery and pain
even in my darkest, heart-shattering
moments—still there lie, floating alongside
my heart, fragmented bits of soul and life:
small, yet not alone
broken, yet salvageable
and lost, yet still hopeful
for they are just beginning their
voyage on the river of healing.
Anastasia
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