Write for Me

Write for me your pain so honestly that the paper tears from your weeping words. Write for me your truth as you see it, so that I see it. Write for me your day in perfectly created word strings that are the footsteps of your life. Write for me so that I may know you write for yourself. Write so that I may understand the beauty of writing.

-OM

58 thoughts on “Write for Me

  1. Pain doesn’t necessarily mean pain of the heart.

    I woke, after the fifteen minutes my body would allow me to sleep. This is the way it had been for more than two years. I was so very tired, so sleep deprived, that I often hallucinated. I would blink my eyes and find myself in a different room. It was one so similar to the one I was in that I wasn’t sure exactly where I was. There was a clock on the wall, but it was in a different place. The time on the clock would change so I didn’t know what time it was, only that it was dark outside. Where is my commode? I don’t see it. I tried to think. I couldn’t move. I have to sleep sitting up because I couldn’t breathe if I laid back too far. Pillows were propping me up and I lay my head back against the wall, with pillows on my side to support it. But that doesn’t always work. When I woke I found that my body had slid to the left. I couldn’t move myself and I had no help at that time to call. It was too early for my husband to be awake. Since this has happened before, when my husband comes into the room around 6 AM I would hold out my arm and he would pull me back up to a sitting position. He would start the morning ritual of taking my vitals and helping me with the bed pan. But for now, I just looked out the window. I was in so much never ending, searing pain that if anyone had asked me if I wanted to check of this life I would have gladly gone. . .

    But wait! I have this pain so I could live. It was hard because no one told me what it was really going to be like. No one told me of this kind of pain. I knew there was going to be pain, but not like this. Not only would they not give me enough pain medication, they cut in half the pain medication I was taking before. So not only did it not take away my pain, I had withdrawl pain as well.

    Day after day after day. Week after week after week. All I could do was lay there and think about my life. When I closed my eyes my life would go by in a series of snapshots like the old time pictures from the 50’s that have the white wavy edged borders. Many of these pictures seemed new to me so they came from a place in my mind where we keep the memories we forget. I thought about how everything we do, every cause we make, has an effect. My doctor told me I came as close as possible to death without dying. But in order to live I had to go through 90 days of living before this intense pain, like I had never felt before, began to subside. I had no choice. I just had to grit my teeth. I had to learn to focus so I could see past the pain.

    I had a liver transplant.

    This is all my fault. This is an effect of the cause I made when I was nineteen to experiment with IV drugs. Many, many years after I stopped, the symptoms of Hep C reared it’s ugly head. I lived with it. Treatment didn’t work. It went from cirrhosis to ascites to liver cancer. I did my best to stay healthy while it slowly destroyed not only my liver but affected other parts of my body as well. It reached the point where I was bedridden for almost two years while I waited for a transplant. After the surgery, because cirrhosis depletes the calcium from bones, my spine fractured and then seven ribs. I still had to get up and walk. I called the physical therapist every name I could think of. I had to put on a back brace that pressed against the couple hundred staples that went from my left side around to four inches behind my right hip bone. They had filleted me like a fish.

    Pain

    Two and a half years later. It was a very long recovery. There are still pain issues, but don’t we all have issues? I’m also now sixty years old. No one gets out of their life without pain if they live long enough. I really am doing very well. I knew I couldn’t die. I wanted to see my grandchildren grow up. I didn’t want to be just a name on the back of a photograph.

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    • Now that was raw and real. Many people don’t live with “real pain” and definitely don’t experience the same levels of pain. It is good for people to read such things. Thank you for sharing and I hope you do get some rest at some point.

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  2. He gave me dreams..
    a forgotten thing for me..
    as the days passed mechanically..
    one after another, no moment free..
    And as I was consumed by him..
    an addiction that left me always wanting..
    He ripped away the castles of dreams
    tumbling away the pieces into air
    His silence was so eloquent..
    it roared around in my head..
    leaving me blind with pain..
    and I resolved never to dream again..
    -Saya

    That is pain for you…

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  3. Hey OM- I don’t write as much as i used to these days, but when I do it’s to express something that’s deep within me. For me, words are like paints on a blank canvas. They color the pages with my temperment and all the emotions that I hold inside. For it is my words that can cut like a knife or be as soft as melting butter. I write from that deep dark place within my soul and that is where my truth lies…

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  4. I write of pain. Of the throbbing, visceral beauty of it, the harmonies and discords. I write what is true and clear and hard. Even when it’s the most difficult and excruciating agony ever experienced in this one single moment in time…. Because that’s all we have. And to deny the present of pain is rob us of the depths of life. Of the joys that follow.
    A.J.

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  5. I love honest writing. Unfortunately, most people don’t want to shed their skin for all to see. But, if they don’t then how will others know that they are not alone in their situations? I’m not really one to talk though, as I don’t bare all either.

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  6. I am a person who uses the written word to communicate….I am afraid that if I were to write my pain and truth on a page that someone read either intentionally or accidentally, they would cease to talk to me…….

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