Because I feel all jumbled up with the surgery coming up–I’ll post about that in a while–I wrote this. I don’t have a title for it.
I cried when you first came at twelve years, eleven months.
My life is done and over, was my first and secret thought.
I tried hard to be friends with you, to accept that you would be
Part of my life for the rest of my life–my preteen mind was blown at that.
Well, that friendship never came off.
You were hard to know, hard to love.
Painful, intrusive, and useless—even then I thought so.
You came to other women with ease, with consideration.
With me that never happened. You were never punctual.
I poured over my calendar the way my mother taught me,
But you never came when I thought. I could never plan for you,
As my mother told me I’d be able to do.
Oh, you were hard to love.
I dreaded your visits. I dreaded even more your attendants,
Bone-deep weariness, waves of sadness, and most of all the pain
That only seemed to grow as I got older.
I dreamed of the day when you would leave me.
You were useless to me; all you gave me was pain
And inconvenience, and embarrassing moments.
I wished—prayed—for your end.
And now, it’s here.
I cry now as you leave me for the last time at thirty-three years, eight months.
I am both glad to see you leave and sad that no more will I have to look forward
With dread, certainly—to your lackadaisical presence.
I’m startled that I feel this way, I who was your enemy for so long.
I salute you, worthy foe.
Thank you for what you gave me, for the things you’ve taught me.
Thank you even for the pain, as pain is the sign of growth.
I salute you, and wish you farewell, until the next go round.