Page 9: Faith
✯ Old photo: Past days in the wild.
“Whatever happens, I give you my word that I’ll fight from within. And perhaps, that’s the most empowering promise I’ll ever make. ”
Faith
January 2020
Here I lay, alone, in the midst of this wickedness, haunted by the words I’ve written, taunted by the mantras I’ve made. I’ve become so dominated by illness that I’ve barely left my bed for months. Disease has no respect for pretty words or empowering ideas. It writes its own rules, regardless of faith, wealth, wickedness or kindness. It’s ripped idealism from the walls of my mind and left me alone amongst the remnants of shredded dreams. I’ve no option but to face an uncomfortable fact, I can’t create a new deadline. I’m barely well enough to write.
The images I’ve uploaded, the ones of me within the wild. In retrospect, perhaps they’re a poor choice for a man whose life’s steadily shrinking into the confines of a four-walled box. Perhaps I’m clutching onto particles of a past identity, unable to accept the loss of a life once lived. Identity? A subject for another day. The photos? They’re fragments of better days, pieces of past experiences. They reflect the essence of who I am, the man beyond the limitations of chronic illness. But they’re no reflection of my reality. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to walk, take a shower or hold a conversation. I’ve been in too much pain to spend time outdoors, too exhausted to socialise with anyone other than my parents, even at Christmas. I say parents, but as each week passes the quicker their category changes, they’re becoming my carers. If I didn’t live with them, I’d be completely alone.
I try to distract myself from the facts to keep myself from the darkness. But as I write these words I’m forced to face the gravity of my reality. I’m fading fast. If my health deteriorates much more, I’ll lose the ability to write. The thought of losing my words brings tears to my eyes. That may sound a little strange, but when you’ve lost so much, the few fragments you have left become extremely precious. Creativity’s carried me through my darkest days, it’s provided me with a place of refuge and a distraction from pain. This art form’s become the thread of hope that weaves my wounds together. But right now, I’m falling apart quicker than I can form the threads. I’m scared, not only of losing my words, but of being unable to move at all.
Those words, that last paragraph, it’s not defeatism, it’s realism. What’s the alternative? Portray my reality with softer shades, twist the truth? I can’t paint a pretty picture without stealing hues from another story. The reality is that truth paints with an imperfect palette. I’m tired of creating false pretences, of sculpting incorrect perceptions. The world doesn’t need another illusion. Of course, the story wasn’t supposed to turn this way. This was meant to be the uplifting part, the part when I’d summoned enough strength to begin fundraising and start helping others in need. But that’s life, isn’t it, a predictably unpredictable beast. Beautiful, brutal, and everything in between.
It’s incredible how erosive an illness can become, how quickly it dissolves capability, good intentions and single-minded ambition. The urge to let go of everything and fade into the abyss is virtually overwhelming. I feel it within every single moment. I feel it pulsing within my brain in rhythm to the pain that beats through my bones. Faith’s been dragged so far that it’s now tattered, torn, left hanging, trailing by a few resilient threads. Resilient? I hope. No. Hope’s not enough, I have to believe it. I have to refuse to surrender, be patient and keep the faith that future days won’t become reflections of past events, or worse. I must venture further into acceptance and search the depths of my being to unearth the strength to fight. And for that, I need to take a break from uploading, from almost everything. I don’t know how bad this illness will become, I don’t know when I’ll be back, but I hope you’ll be with me when I return.
The future? I’d love to share deep poetry and create colourful fusions of uplifting words. I hope to venture deeper into an art form which I’ve not yet shared. One capable of touching the depths of our souls. And if I can form enough strength, I’d like to craft my own style of thought-provoking vlogs. But, right now, opportunity offers little kindness, it won’t gift me capability. I can’t offer many promises, but I can make a vow. Two years ago, I wrote that failure will not be found within my surrender. I may become too weak to physically fight, but whatever happens, I give you my word that I’ll fight from within. And perhaps, that’s the most empowering promise I’ll ever make.
With warmth,
Davey