Spoken word poetry about how normal is a myth and that a woman in a red dress is a mere visual illusion. The red fabric she is wearing does not portray anything about her inside. Which is a world of her own; for no one to judge.
Here I am, walking along the pavement in my pretty red dress. I appear normal as if my bodily systems weren´t in a mode of high distress. Of course, this image might be because I am slender, which society tells me is so very suitable for my female gender. At the same time too there is a sporty touch to my figure, oh what a good match and an eye´s catch. What an attractive young woman might think the random stranger there on the street, the one – did you notice him? – observing me in his blue jeans and hoody so neat?
The outer appearance of my persona, however, does not only confuse the random walk-alongs, rather it feels like most humans are fooled by systemic blindness and without any sense of kindness – the inner world of that woman is ignored. So wrong, wrong, wrong!
Because: Who dares seeing that the woman´s brain becomes foggy and the noise of the traffic – just the cars and trucks there on the streets – are in great contrast to her appearing so sweet? Looking only at the beautiful façade of a human is dumb. Yet, this is what society taught us to acknowledge – appearance, performance, and success. We are degraded to being walking brains on two legs whilst nobody is double-checking the actual facts.
No… not the random stranger you might meet, or the walk-alongs on the street, and to a shocking realisation not even the medical professionals, doctors who are trained for illness and disease defeat.
My recent experiences of discrimination and misogyny in the medical system make me tremble: I struggle to fully assemble why my outer appearance does not allow me to be severely ill. No, this state is not my bad will or intention to lie. I am not a hypochonder or hysteric being because my body is hosting a uterus not only to the dislikes of the clerics.
It is because I have lost my life, my job, my health, my finances, and most of all: my identity – the crucial part that I thought to be the real me. Trust me to say, the worst of my nightmares turned to become my new daytime reality. This is the current form of me and not a choice. I have had twelve months to ponder, to see my life float away, lying in bed most of this time when fully living was none of mine. I have been through pain and disdain at a scale most people do not even dare to imagine. I have been through all the bad hell society has to offer. I am traumatised and trust me nothing of all this was in any way nice.
Yet, I am frequently offended and confronted by prejudices. By strangers, doctors, family members, and friends alike who do not understand. Matter of fact, they are not able to in the slightest comprehend. I am treated like an alien, a creature coming from some distant planet in space. Am I at the wrong place? Just… because my reality is a different narrative? No, I am not intending to be persuasive – but let me tell you the following:
Invisible illnesses such as mecfs and fatigue are real matter. Even if you are tempted to swallow about this chatter, hang in there – are you still with me or did you drift away because I am destroying your idea of normal? Are you swaying to the sides, trying to delaying the dawning hint of wisdom that pops up even from deep of your own within… just listen.
To a narrative that is different, derived from struggle and pain, yes, it sounds unbelievable, yet why would believing it not be achievable – even for you?!
I´d say it's time to broaden your horizon. Dare to accept that even a woman in a red dress looking pretty could have experienced a whole damn lot of life´s pity. Stop judging a book by its colours and realise that truth comes in many different facets. Each life, each narrative has a particular effect on the person living it.
So, keep out! Shut up!
Who are you to judge??? To do so, you are not allowed. Eat your own piece of fudge. I cannot help you if you still struggle to get along with that normal is a myth. A fairy tale story, we´ve all been told – long gone! And for your disappointment, I am only half-heartedly sorry. I have had to learn all this the hardest way. Now, finally, wisdom is arising and healing I do not intend to further delay. I am craving a new spring, my second first May.
So, for you, if you intend to further engage, there are only two options:
1) Be curious and open to learn from my wisdom. Read my story like you would a new book, and perhaps you are going to be unhooked. Taken by insight and surprise, able to arise from your former point of view to finding something completely anew.
2) Let me reside in peace and, please, do not bother me anymore with your same old stories, all those narratives derived from a rotten society, a concept which is certainly none of my deities. Anymore! If you have difficulties to change perspective, that´s ok. I will be respective and not dismiss your right to life in the way you have chosen. Just forgive me, to be very clear, if I then decide my energy is too precious to be spent on your exhausting chatter about unimportant matter. The latter realisation, it hurts, I know.
Yet, change never comes without sacrifice. Everything in this world has its price. By stepping ahead and into the future, this concept is what we all will have to accept.
Normal is a myth – better you too do remember!
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