Repeat mode on

Sometimes she tries. Hard. But sometimes she simply can’t. But she tries again, don’t want to be defeated by a body too weak. And when she gets to it, after sometimes a time longer than usual, she simply feel like staying in bed, waiting for the pounding of her heart to get back to normal.

Sometimes she blames her body she cannot compel to her own will. Sometimes she hates the meds, she hates the little yellow pills. She wish she could do without. But she takes them anyway. She doesn’t want to faint. She doesn’t want to shows people her weaknesses.

So she takes it anyway. With a big glass of water. Every morning. And when she forgets, she hopes she will be allright, and scold herself for being such a light headed girl. And with a little fear, she drinks coffee and tea, hoping the blood pressure won’t play truant.

She senses when the dosage is not enough. Her body works on stand-by and she hardly can find the strength to do anything. She would like better a little too much. That’s how she feels all right, and bouncy. But the doc says otherwise. So she follows. Grumpily, but she follows.


She is afraid, sometimes. Afraid it might get worse. So she thinks positive. She smiles and she stays strong. She seldom cry. And when she does, she does it for every sad event that come across her life. She cries for the sensation of lack, whispering “misshu kita”. But as a rainfall, it passes away. It always does.

Sometimes at night, her body feels stronger. She knows how to trigger the memories that her body recorded on her flesh. She knows what buttons to push. So she tries again, and when it works, she feels relieved.

And a bit sad for not giving all this but to herself.