The Puppet Show
My options were an unconventional therapy or a cocktail of eight different pharmaceutical prescriptions. So, I rolled the dice and picked my poison. And I lived to tell the story. But I died a little on the inside.
Now everyday my bright eyes become dimmer. Fist full of pills. Venomous fingertips. Body filled with toxins. Giving rise to side effects worst than the original problem. And I’m still progressing. Still searching for answers.
And the loudest voices are coming from paid spokespeople and corporations. It’s a continuous push of propaganda from a wooden puppet echo chamber.
Everyone profits from my illness
I watch as everyone profits from my illness. Doctors, the media, and celebrities telling me the cure is so close. Just keep taking our medication. Just keep making those payments. Just keep ignoring our growing noses.
But I’m a real girl. Trying to survive in the whale’s belly. Living on the edge of the edge. And the lack of action leads me to overreact.
Sadden heart. Blurry vision. Foot drag. Spasms. Weakness. Fear. I’ve experienced it all.
I'm the star of the marionette show
The cricket on my shoulder tried to warn me. But just like everyone else, I’m eating up all the lies. I’m no better than them. Plus, I’m starring in this marionette show. I’m a dummy too. Trusting the words of the puppets. Believing the spam emails, unsolicited phone calls and social media posts. Spending more money at the drug store than the grocery store. I’m a preferred customer. The pharmacists know me by name.
Wishing Geppetto would save me
Watching as my friends jump off cliffs. Trying every fad diet and the newest miracle drug. Looking dumb on their smart phones searching for news about treatments that change every month. Decoding therapy rumors. Believing lies that are as visible as the spots on my MRI. Researching cost of flights and hotels to foreign countries in hopes of being picked for unproven cell treatments.
And all those half-truths got me feeling like I’m trapped on a cursed island. Living with donkeys. Wishing Geppetto would save me. Unable to go home until the money is right. Witnessing their noses getting longer every time they move their lips.
But I play along. I pretend nothing is wrong. Smothering my cries with deceit. Cremating my feelings. Putting faith in how many rats can still run through a maze after the test trials.
Chasing after a cure that I may never see
It’s just all so much. The misinformation is so masterful it could be hung in the Louvre. And all that data has brought me nothing but tears upon tears. It has overpowered me by blocking the truth. And it hurts when I can’t see the truth.
I’ve been chasing a cure for years but now my legs are tired. My mind can’t take the realization I may never see it materialize. So, I settle for any information. Looking for comfort. Hunting for reassurance that everything will be all right. Trying to find answers to stop all of the pain, all of the sorrow and all the hardship. So much that I begin to believe almost anything coming from the wooden puppet’s mouths. Even as I watch their noses grow.
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