It is frustrating when people mistake kindness for weakness,
Be cautious with your heart; it may wind up in pieces.
Be careful who you trust; not everyone cares,
Moving forward is hard when your mind is everywhere.

They hear but fail to listen, quick to place blame,
Ignorant and resistant to the concept of change.
Are you starting to question everyone around you,
Do you often wonder about a different life for you?

Stuck in their ways, they assume we are all the same,
The last thing I want to do is cause conflict.
It is hard to explain, but if you listen closely,
My life is anything but perfect!

A dull ache in my chest, still not feeling my best,
Raw, unspoken feelings that are hard to express.

I feel misunderstood in a multitude of ways,
Have you ever stayed in bed and cried all day?

It kind of stings when you tell someone you love,
You are not someone that I think very highly of.

Just an honest conversation, no lying or persuading,
Leaving me at a vulnerable disadvantage.
Can I trust you? Who did I open up to?
Big emotions cause way too much damage.

Can you please stop yelling; it makes me shut down,
The loudest silence is peaceful and immensely profound.

I may appear silent, but I carry my feelings deeply,
Hurt disguised as anger burns brightly within me.

Do my feelings even matter? I am trying my best!
I am semi-functional, yet I still feel depressed.
I only open up when I feel close to someone,
The truth hurts, but the liars have so much fun.

Music is my lifeline, a soundtrack to my healing,
Lyrics and beats that convey my true feelings.

I can no longer prioritize your feelings over my own,
It is time for me to lock in and reclaim my throne.
I once was a pushover who gave out many chances,
Avoiding anyone too blinded by circumstance.

I am an overthinker who takes everything to heart,
I am no longer interested in things that pull me apart.

Take a look at yourself before you judge someone else.
My mindset has changed. Yes, I know!
I’m not so stuck in my ways; I’ve learned from my mistakes,
Understanding myself helped me grow.

Forgiveness is the first step, but don’t be bitter,
We all have a past, so I urge you to reconsider.
Honor your feelings, and don’t allow rage to blind you,
The answers you seek are already inside you.

As people walk by – just movements, passing the time
Drifting in and out of our lives
A lingering question remains… “How? Why?”

How sweet life can be in a moment here or there
A walk in the woods, a yawning forth dawn
How it’s swept away, now gone
A haunted whisper around you, in the midnight air

As the moon has a shadow side, so does my path
The next iteration
A decision to live, surrender, to not turn back

As I step away from the outer world
And I go in
I continue to find myself again and again

The arrival of hope
As magic makes a home
As questions turn to knowing
A rite of passage in growth

With the skies of blue and leaves of yellow & green
Our lives drift onward
With the promise of the seen & unseen

The fabric of our lives, the stories we tell
A recipe for peace
Good night, sweet girl

Dear Unsealers,

“See? I told you he wouldn’t care. Mr. Weatherford’s chill.”

“Chill” may be one of the highest compliments a high school teacher can achieve. And indeed, the label is largely a nod to my patience, my understanding, my compassion, and my empathy. Apologies for tooting my own horn… and more apologies for griping about how this compliment leaves me feeling misunderstood.

It’s just that there’s other connotations with chill- not caring, a lack of passion, that in some way, the word approaches an adjacence to apathy.
I may indeed be placid- like a lake in summer. Not much ruffles my feathers, and even when ruffled, me flying off the handle reaches a Mr. Roger’s level of intensity at most.

Perhaps, in that silly comparison, lies another clue as to why the label feels off, why it makes me feel so misunderstood. Because, Mr. Rogers, while supremely serene in one sense of the word is also so intentionally intense in his commitment to his values- especially kindness. His passion for promoting the highest of hopes for humanity knows no bounds. He cares sooooo much, so doesn’t chill miss the mark? Now, wait. Am I talking about him or me?

I like to think that my supreme chill factor is similarly born out of my internal sense of and commitment to what truly matters. Sure, I don’t sweat the small stuff. When you’ve buried loved ones (and when you’ve buried your own past self), you get a new sense of what truly matters in this life. It’s a painful price to pay, but the treasure unearthed is beyond price. That golden nugget is the reminder of life’s purpose and remembering it is what creates the chill factor.

I may sound like a broken record at this point, if you’ve been following my letters. It’s the same truth I keep preaching over and over.

The purpose of this life is…

LOVE. Plain and simple. This reminder of committedly placing love at the center of all action, this daily practice of striving to be love’s loyal servant, this grounding through prayer and meditation are key ingredients that compose the tranquil tamale that I am. And much like a tamale, I’m full of spice, but I also remind one of home, mama’s meals. I’m simple in my composition, and yet, my disparate parts work together to unlock the best of each other. I’m conviction and calm intertwined in a beautiful dance.

Each one of us is made to be this way- our own signature recipes, slight variations here and there, but ultimately, designed to allow love to flow in and out of us as easily as the air we breathe. So, my dear reader, take a deep breath, take a step back to remember what most matters and allow yourself to become so chill, you might just be labeled a walking popsicle.

“You’re so chill, Mr. Weatherford.”
It’s a phrase I’ve heard countless times.
And it’s meant with love, a term of endearment,
Yet, it covers all manner of crimes.

I am indeed chill,
Cool, collected, and calm,
The term fits the bill,
With the exception of my one petty qualm.

I care to the depths of this heart that I’ve got.
My passion for people for no price can be bought.
With each rhyme that I weave, you’ll see that my heart’s burnin’ hot.
I’m ardent and fervent, always shootin’ my shot.

I’ve been smacked down by life, and these hard knocks they taught
Me to seize every chance to write my own plot.
They showed me my power lies in each little jot,
The words that I script -each tremendous thought-
Deliver so much, I can’t describe what they’ve brought.
They told me what I was seeking before I even knew that I sought.
These words brought me wind when I thought all was fraught.

So yes, I’m calm,
My words can soothe like a balm.
And yes, I drop wisdom without wind,
Like I’m composing a Psalm.
But don’t get it twisted,
That don’t mean I don’t care.
I pull in each breath, like I’m countin’ the air.
Accuse me of complacency? Oh no, don’t you dare!
My whole heart and soul are wrapped up in this affair.

When it comes to life and love, I literally couldn’t care less.
So, now, you know, you don’t have to guess.
Thanks for attending my Ted Talk- I digress,
It’s just that this label’s been causin’ me stress
Had to write up my feelings to get this weight offa my chest.
Now I will return to praying for you, me, and all that we’re blessed.
May we remember to honor love to stay chill amid life’s stress
May affection at the center lead to compassion and calm in every test.

You know the me that smiles and laughs.

You know the me that shows up and fights for herself.

You know the me that sits in the back, blending in with the crowd.

You know the me that holds it all together.

You know the me that is strong and independent.

You know the me that works hard and pushes through.

But do you really know me?

Do you know the me that cries and behind that smile is a hurting heart?

Do you know the me that is tired of fighting and wants to give up?

Do you know the me that is scared to fully be herself and that is why she sits in the back just hoping she won’t be noticed?

Do you know the me that can’t take on another thing because she will drop the ball on everything if she does?

Do you know the me that’s weak and feels like her world is falling apart?

Do you know the me that is tired and exhausted and just needs a moment to rest?

Do you know the real me?

Do you know the me that’s not perfect?

Do you know the me that needs a savior?

Do you know the real me?

You may not really know me and that’s okay, but there is one who does.

He sees my tears and collects each one.

He mends my broken heart.

He fights my battles when I can’t.

He sees me and fully looks at me in every state of life and in every emotion I carry.

He brings me rest, restores my soul, and brings peace over my mind.

He sees the innermost part of my soul and still loves all that is there

I was always the lover,
never the loved
Always a memory,
never the moment
Friction, but never movement
I know I was always viewed –
just never seen

I am always the touched,
but never held
The guided,
never the guide
Always the dreamer,
but never a dream come true
Needy, but never needed
I know I have always been the writer –
just never the muse

I am always a lesson,
but never the grade
The problem,
never the cause
Always a plot line,
but never the story
Asking, never asked
I know I am the waves for surf –
just never the ocean

I will likely die without anyone on this Earth
ever knowing who I truly was;
they only ever saw me for what I was not
or what I could have been instead

Because I was the friend,
but never the best friend
The itch,
never the tickle
Always worshipping,
never the worshipped
Remission, never recovery
I know I have always been listened to –
just never heard

I was always good, but never great,
always devoted, never devoted to,
admired, but never respected,
surviving, never living,
bitten, never biting
Going far, but never far enough,
wanting, never wanted,
healing, never healed,
the toad, never a frog
Never a truth, but never a lie,
loved, but never liked,
cute, never beautiful,
smart, never gifted,
a medicine, never a cure,
the muscle pain, but never the growth spurt

They won’t know what to inscribe on my tomb,
this is the legacy I am destined to leave behind:
Always understanding,
but never once in my life understood

As the world turns
My soul yearns
To be reunited
After consistently
Being slighted
I would be
Lying
If I tried
To deny it
There was once hope
A hope
That I poured
Everything into
A hope slowly
Fading
A fact
That I cannot
Seem to cope
With
Wounded healer
Searching for
The Balm in Gilead
To use as concealer
My eyes water
The tears do not
Fall
I do not
Want to scream
But I want to
Make sure
That you hear
My call

My cousin gave me her bikini to wear for the evening. It’s royal blue, like my claw clip with the jewels. I changed into it in her bathroom and I looked up at the mirror.

“You look just like your mom!!”

No, I don’t. My mom is beautiful. I look like the prototype of her. The failed first experiment.

I tugged at my waist and stomach, areas I despise. Back in high school: Stretching my arms overhead would reveal my ribs. I remember not liking that either. 

What’s so wrong with me?

“You’re getting to be a bit chubby.”

They don’t mean it like that. After I was so thin for so long, they’re happy to see I got meat on my bones. But after my ex called me fat for just enjoying making dinner every night, it stings. When you weigh 90 lbs and you can see the shape of your ribs when you raise your arms and still think you’re chubby… I missed enjoying eating for a long time. 

I imagine pulling my skin back like elastic, like a dress that’s a little too large. My mom was so beautiful when she was my age. Thin, athletic, large beautiful eyes and a cute nose and thick dark hair. Today, as I was getting dressed, I pulled at my face in the mirror. Pulled my skin back to tighten the flaws. 

Why am I not pretty?

“You’re as beautiful as you are funny,” my boyfriend whispered in my ear.

I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say? Thank you?

When someone sees you, really sees you, what are you supposed to say? When someone looks at you and all the things you don’t like, and still loves you anyway, what are you supposed to do?

My mother walked in not long after and I greeted her warmly. I went to hug her, and she walked past me. Looked through me. It took a couple hours for her to warm up to me, like I was a stranger.

What’s wrong with me?

We talked a little more and laughed. We drank some shots, and I talked about school. I felt so small but like things were mending. We sat and talked about moths. I used to feel like a moth, a bug accidentally let inside. Just waiting for someone to put me in a cup and put me outside or stomp on me til I’m nothing.

I drank and drank and drank a little more. I can smell a storm brewing in the air. I sobered up while we talked. Everyone else passed around some reefer. We talked about my grandfather, and how, if he lived that long, that he would’ve loved teenaged me. We would’ve smoked pot and listened to C.C.R, and watched the Miami Dolphins on the tube t.v while the rest of the family ate in the room next door. 

We talked about my aunt. How she would’ve loved the plays I was acting in. The Moors and The Thanksgiving Play and Julius Caesar. How we would’ve sat in my car talking about God and poetry and how excited she would’ve been to know I wrote anything.

Did all the people that could’ve loved me as I am die?

Sometimes I feel like I’m inside a bubble. I can’t reach out to the people I love because the keeps me trapped. I can’t pop it. It’s more sturdy than it looks. Those I love can’t reach in because there’s a wall there that neither of us can break. My visage is contorted and oblong as the bubble warps me. But I am not a soapy, malformed creature! I am in here! I am a human being, and I am trapped in here!

Can’t you see me?

My cousin said my mother has issues with control. Even when they were young, she tried to control Nikki and they fought. Mama was older than Nikki and instead of a guide she would grab her by the shoulders and shove her in a direction. My cousin said I was too smart to be manipulated any longer, that I was confident and strong and sweet and too good to not fight with her.

I don’t wanna be good anymore

What is so wrong with me?

There’s something deeply isolating
about feeling
all alone
alongside someone tethered to your heart —
or instead, perhaps, your soul.

Late December,
when the trees are blanketed
in fresh snow,
the cold, harsh tone of a loved one
doesn’t quite suit the warmth
and childlike nostalgia
twinkling from the Christmas tree in my peripheral.

You “listen” but do not hear —
it sours the aroma of nutmeg drifting
all around me,
clinging to my skin like honey,
like a leech.

The tree lights—
blurred like the lines at which we rally words—
offer solace
I refuse.
As the edges of the room soften,
I welcome the distance.

Percussion blooms in my chest,
a flush born of connection
becomes a steady sting—
burning trails of fire beneath my skin.
A fire that does not warm,
but incinerates.
Does not nourish,
but devours.

If I pour my essence onto paper,
sprawl myself across the page like watercolor,
will I finally be relieved of the fear of
not being seen?
If my chest cracks,
will someone let the light in?
Will I be illuminated?

My lips are sewn shut, it seems.
I tried to break free —
But silence felt safer.

I stopped listening to her, anyway.
I didn’t mean to, but I can’t hear
her words
through the hammering in my head.

No one will ever truly understand you.

Blurred lights swell,
overtaking my vision completely
until I can no longer
see
or be seen.

No one will ever truly understand you.
Actually, that’s not true.
I do.

And so,
when the lights return to focus,
I will choose to see myself,
hear myself,
breathe myself.
I will gather each misunderstood fragment
and emerge
a mended and mesmerizing mosaic,
and I will let that
be
enough.

The coffee table is where it all began

The wooden coffee table with its steel legs

And cracked edges

You let me “borrow” it

And I ended up keeping it until 4 years later when we moved to a different city together

The coffee table I think of had a chess board inside that I never chose to play on

The coffee table I think of never had tea or even a coffee cup on it, not even once

What it did have was:

Stains of juice

Blood from ouchies

Food crumbs from the nights we’d get high and stuff our faces with McDoubles and fries

Dents from the nights we’d fight, and you trashed the house with your jealousy and anger

Even deeper cracks that formed from the high-pitched screams of laughing children and screaming adults

Two adults living in depression and anxiety together

Finding peace in each other even when we couldn’t really stand one another

I guess I really miss that coffee table.

But missing that coffee table means I have to let you back in

Missing that coffee table means going through all the things we went through before

Missing that coffee table means giving my entire self and being crushed and shoved back into the pits of hell again and this time not being able to make it back out

Missing that coffee table must not be in my life path

And so I think missing that coffee table just means I need a new one

We often hear, don’t judge a book,
The cover image can be mistook.
Within the pages, motives dwell,
Our misconceptions soon dispel.

The same holds true for the mien on my face,
One glance, you determine, too often in haste.
Assuming I’m grumpy, or weary, or sad,
Eyebrows are furrowed, but I am not mad.

My eyes are squinty, the corners are creased,
Downward twist of my mouth, and you tag me a beast.
That I don’t really care, what you try to convey,
You turn from me silently, then walk away.

Involuntary, I have no control,
It’s the way my face hangs, my muscles they loll.
On the surface, a grimace, a scowl, or a sneer,
Within I am pondering all that I hear.

Don’t read me wrong, appearance deceives,
Beyond the facade, my interest, perceive.
A smile on my lips, eyes open wide,
Is what’s truly happening on the inside.

To the black sheep, hear our ode:
This is the sacred art of letters pieced together like a puzzle
For the ones whose thoughts seep into vocal chords as they boil up, overflow and spill out the mouth with waves of emotion
For the ones that somewhere along the way, the words and points we try to make get entangled into a ball of yarn.. alongside our heart’s sentiments
Fellow black sheep,
I see you, as you detangle and pull at each string, like it’s a perfected instrument
We yearn for our prose and our voices engulfed by flames, to be heard by the world so we can stitch together the wounds of society’s brokenness
For we are the odd ones out of the herd, where our adversity lies in the tunes we can sometimes lose
We scream so loud that we feel like the boy who cried wolf
Although the tunes of our thoughts may seem to get lost and dissipate into constant distractions from our authentic self…
Those lost tunes will forever be a medley and undertones of other forgotten art, each time we use our voice
The heart of our flames will grow, as we rise above attempts to be silenced
We will spread our warmth like wildfire and know no other truth that is of our own, and life itself
Black sheep, we will glimmer just as bright.

A silent scream trapped in my throat, A melody unheard, a forgotten note. I speak in whispers, shout in vain, My words dispersed like falling rain. They see the surface, the outward show, But miss the depths where feelings flow. A painted smile, a guarded face, concealing wounds I can’t erase. I offer truth, a fragile thing, But echoes bounce, and silence rings. My voice, a tremor in the air, Lost in a world that doesn’t care. They label me with careless ease, A tapestry of cruel decrees. “To sensitive,” “too much,” they say, And cast their judgments every day. “Dramatic,” “difficult,” “a mess, These words, a source of deep distress. They pin me down with judging eyes, And watch my spirit slowly die. I try to break these chain of lies, To show the truth behind my guise. To share the battles I have fought, The lessons learned battles bought. But walls arise, of doubt and fear, And clarity becomes unclear. My intentions twisted, turned around, My fragile self upon the ground. They hear the noise, the outward sound, But miss the meaning all around. The subtle cues, the hidden plea, The desperate longing to be free. I build a fortress, brick by brick, To shield myself from every prick. A lonely haven, cold and gray, Where I can hide and fade away. The weight of silence starts to press, A heavy cloak of loneliness. I long for someone to understand, To reach a helping, open hand. To see the fire in my soul, And make me feel complete and whole. To hear the music, soft and low, The secrets that I long to show. But shadows dance, and darkness falls, As empathy begins to stall. The bridges crumble, one by one, Leaving me stranded, all alone. I yearn to speak, to be defined, By who I am, not what they find. To shed the labels, break the mold, And have my story finally told. But fear still lingers, deep inside, That ill be judged, and cast aside. So I retreat, and hold my tongue, And suffer silently, unsung. The world keeps spinning, deaf and blind, To the true nature of my mind. And I remain, a whispered plea, forever lost, misunderstood, and free. Free from their grasps, yet bound by pain, A silent echo in the rain. A constant struggle, day by day, To find a voice, and find a way. To be heard, seen, and finally known, before my spirit turns to stone.

I speak, but my words fall like whispers in the wind,
Twisted, tangled, unheard in the ears of him.
I give, but my offerings crumble like sand,
Never enough for the grasp of his hands.

He smiles, but his eyes still hold yesterday’s scars,
Forgiveness is spoken but shackled in bars.
A love that is promised, yet dangled so high,
Like a kite in a storm, just teasing the sky.

And I wonder—was it You, Lord, who whispered his name?
Or was it my longing that crafted the claim?
Did I paint my own path and call it divine,
While You waited, patient, saying, Not this time?

Maybe it’s me who misunderstood,
Clinging to chains, calling them good.
Trying to fix what was meant to break,
While You whisper, Daughter, let me remake.

For the love I chase leaves me undone,
But the love I need is found in One.
Not in his hands, nor in his call,
But in the hands that formed it all.

So I lay it down, this weary fight,
I trade my will for Heaven’s light.
I may be misunderstood by man, it’s true,
But I am fully known, Lord, by You.

To All Pharmacy Patients:

I am the Misunderstood Pharmacy Technician behind the counter where you are trying to get your medications.

I am misunderstood in being regarded as rude or harsh, when I am simply doing my job, which is essentially to help you and make sure your medication is safe and accurate.

Your choice to yell at me and be verbally abusive is futile. I, too, get my medications here, and I am the lowest (wo)man on the totem pole (literally).

I wish we could switch shoes for just a day, perhaps on the 7th consecutive day where I have worked a 10-hour shift on my feet with no chance to sit. Yes, my shoes were comfortable five days ago, and are usually comfortable for the first 9 hours of the day, but during the 7th day, no number of insoles or magic can help.

I wish you understood that I know what it’s like to have a sick kid; I have one at home too, and need to leave work on time to tend to them and my family.

I wish you understood that I know you just left the hospital which is right across the street, but they don’t send the prescriptions individually, but instead often send them in bunches on the hour. It’s more time-efficient for them, which actually trickles down to be more time-efficient for you, as they can see you sooner. This means I may not already have it in the five minutes it took you to get here from their location, and no, I cannot call to see if it’s been sent.

I wish you understood I have nothing to do with pricing, nor does anyone at my location. I do not create relationships with vendors, agreements with wholesalers, mass purchases, or manufacturers selected. I wish you understood that I do not know what is on your formulary, as there are literally thousands of plans offered in the country, and I wish you understood that some of that responsibility lies on your shoulders.

I wish you understood we fill 750 prescriptions daily, with just one pharmacist and two techs. I wish you truly understood the concept of red tape, or tape of any color, for that matter. If you’ve ever had long or semi-long hair, or have a child with such, and gotten any sort of tape involved, picture a piece of tape, maybe 2-3 inches long, which is especially sticky. After it gets stuck in one piece of hair, the more you try to get it out, number of hair strands that get involved increases exponentially. At some point, the tape is now controlling a big wad of hair and won’t get off your fingers either, similar to a child’s booger. This same tape is the regulations by which I am bound.

I wish you understood I am bound by limitations/regulations of all kinds: plan limitations, narcotics limitations, days’ supply limitations, age limitations, Medicare B/D fuzzy line limitations, manufacturer limitations by Medicaid, corporate limitations, state limitations from my license, and limitations by both the DEA and FDA.

I wish you understood, or tried to, that I just spent 21 minutes on the phone with your insurance company trying to get this fixed and am getting an answer, albeit an answer you may not like.

I wish you understood that asking me the same question four times does not change the answer.

I wish you understood that when we “close” for a 30-minute break for lunch, we are really not taking a break, but are catching up on things we haven’t had time to do during the morning without interruptions. It’s not a way to ignore you; we’re simply catching up so we can finish your case.

I wish you understood that when I am not speaking while typing in information and reading my screen, it is not because I’m ignoring you, but instead am gathering information and putting things together.

I wish you understood that when I’m asking for more information, it’s for safety. Yes, it matters to the insurance whether your apartment is 2C or 2. Yes, it matters if your area code is 317 or 316. Yes, it matters what the EXACT date/year of birth is. Yes, it matters what the gender assigned at birth is. All of this information matters to the insurance company who is processing your claim and trying to get it paid. I have no partiality to any of this, and my view is not changed by whether we are neighbors or first-grade enemies; this is info we must collect.

I wish you understood that I personally have no bias on which purpose you have for the medication, but government programs do. Medicare B and D are different in the way they treat diabetes supplies and medications. I wish you understood that what your doctor told you in his office has no change in what I do at my location. Medicare DOES NEED to know how often you test your blood sugar daily; those questions are not just for my curiosity.

Test strips/diabetes…that creates a whole new level of misunderstanding. If my shoes are not feeling uncomfortable to you yet, they will be soon. I wish you understood that your personal diabetes specifics do not affect me in any way. I understand you are pre-diabetic, Type 1 Diabetic, Type 2 Diabetic, or are genetically pre-disposed to Diabetes. HOWEVER, I wish YOU understood that your dilemma is no better/worse than the person next to you in line. All of these new medications that began to be successful (off-label) at weight loss and have exploded in demand are in some ways a nemesis to us. We have nothing to do with manufacturing, supply/demand, and raw ingredients, and no I cannot call four different stores (same chain or others) to see if they have that product because we don’t have it in stock today. I wish you understood that being on backorder does not mean it will be here on a specific day, but means it has been ordered and we have no more info than that, and cannot just contact the manufacturer. I wish you understood that I am not the triage leader. “I am a true diabetic” is a terrible thing to say, as I don’t control who gets the medication, nor does that change the demand. It’s infuriating to assume so.

As my shoes are getting tighter and warmer to you, I wish you understoodthat I do not dictate which brand of biologic your doctor prescribes, and I cannot just “find out” which ones are available. Reasonably, that’s like me telling you that I need a pair of teal socks and asking you to find out who (any company, any store, any location) has what size, and then asking if you have any other aqua-blue colors.

I wish you understood there are infinite opportunities for errors in medications and prescriptions, from the pharmacy, the doctor, and the patient. We spend a lot of time, and specifically and a lot of time in the aforementioned ball of red tape trying to prevent such. If a script’s instructions are not clear as whether to use twice daily or thrice daily (which I have seen), yes I need to spend some extra time of yours AND mine to call to make sure your child does not get too much.

I wish you understood there are specific blocks set up to PROTECT YOU, the PATIENT. If your file says somewhere that you have a sulfa allergy, but are prescribed medication even remotely in that class, our system flags it and we need to call, because we are dispensing medication to HELP you, not harm you.

Ultimately, I wish you understood the many things that go on behind the scenes of your amber vial getting in a bag to you. Now, let’s switch our shoes back. I will remember your frustrations of time delays and other perceived obstacles as you will hopefully remember mine. I’m hanging my dirty, tired shoes on the door handle for tonight.

Sent with genuine concern for your health and safety of you and your family,

The Pharmacy Technician at your Local Retail Pharmacy

—-

Stacie Myers

It’s been forever since I was who I used to be.
Today, my life is simple – but one day, I will be free
from the prison of my mind and my fading memory.
God help them to remember, who I used to be.

Some days they are strangers in my world of mistaken thought.
Reaching, grasping, struggling to recall all I forgot.
As conversations jumble in a room of family fun
I don’t keep up, I can’t respond – I simply want to run.

But then a child will hug my arm, “Nani, will you come and play?”
I find my smile, my arms reach out – my eyes call out to say,
“I’m here, I see you, I have something sweet to give…
I love you more than I can say. I have reason now to live.”

Hoping not to disappoint as I have no words to say,
frustration grows, anger builds, humiliation carries me away.
They start to sing to bring me back from that swirl of anxiety.
I hear their song, sing right along, and for a moment, I feel like me.

They hold tight to thoughts of better days, of gathering with each other
My life once defined as a friend, a wife, and loving mother.
So thankful for the peace I feel, as I love God faithfully,
awaiting His promise, I’ll be whole again, with my Lord in eternity.

Thank you, Jesus, for your love. Thank you for your grace.
As I fade away from the life I knew, I’ll rest in your embrace.
I long for peace and calmness as you take me in your arms,
and soon be restored and safe, as you keep me from all harm.

Thank you for the compassion as you taught them how to care.
Thank you for your comfort, for I knew you were always there.
And when you finally free me from my fading memory,
my pain removed, my thoughts revealed, from this prison, I will be free.

(Imagining the “what if” of having Alzheimer’s)
Copyright 2025

How fortunate is it to be seen and thought to be so-called “understood”?
I live in a devastating state of apprehension.
Yet damned to seldomly feel this thing called “misunderstood.” Constantly solving a puzzle where the pieces rarely fit.
Lucky for me, I am a builder that can shape-shift. To my conception, no one actually gets the concept. Truthfully, neither do I.

A woman of a unique craft filling my toolbox to maneuver through the physical plane.
Blessed with an ethereal state of mind.
Butterflies, dandelions, and roses
There may be clouds and sometimes even storms, but the sun always seems to find a way to shine.
Conformed my mind to live in my truth.

“Not everyone has your tools,” I say with a tearful smile upon my face.
Mask on, chisel in hand.
What’s the grand master plan?
I think to myself as I’m working my magic to the best of my ability.
Chipping away pieces to fit into others’ creations.
Unbelievable as it may seem.

Unfortunately, I blend for a time. But I am also a believer that my timing is divine.
Was I placed here to support others’ understanding of themselves and then to be put away on a shelf?
A prized possession constantly warping itself.

They think they get my picture, it’s continuously growing.
By the time they want to meet me where they thought I was, I am long gone.
Deep down, I am alright with being misinterpreted.
At least I’m seen and heard, right?

I want to be understood, but that may not be in the cards dealt for my life.
Thankfully, I understand myself and a bit of everyone else.
It’s very enticing being a shape-shifter with a unique toolbox.
Unique art on a grand extended shelf.

“Haha!” my mother laughed.
“You must have interesting karma
To look so young and be so old inside.”
Yes, funny, but no haha funny.
I thought at three feet tall.

I’m still waiting for the curse
To turn into a blessing,
But at thirty-nine I’m tired of it all,
Tired of being carded,
Tired of parents mistaking me for another student,
Tired of no one taking me seriously.

I was born into the world
With visions of the distant past,
Ideas for the fragile future,
And keen observations of our present state.
I did not want to play.
I wanted to fix the human race.
I wanted to repair the planet.
I wanted all the fighting and destruction to stop.

No wonder by third grade
I’d given up.
Years of trying to inform and guide the way
Wasted on the blissfully ignorant,
Who laughed in my face
… or worse,
Beating me down into despair.

They only saw a child,
Who was meant to listen and obey,
But in my mind I was wise and weary,
Ready to fall on my own sword
If it couldn’t cut through the apathy and greed
Growing thick around me.

Time slid by slowly scratching down
My patience, hope, vitality.
Yet no amount of hard living,
All the falls and blunders,
The drugs and self-destruction,
Could gray my hair nor wrinkle my skin.
My baby cheeks never caved in
And my figure barely fattened.

So I return sweet smiles
Looking down on my false youth,
Pretend I’m who they think I am.
Only you now know the truth –
That I’m tough as nails,
Sharp as a tac,
And hardly innocent.