Many times
I have been called resilient.
A title inflicted on me
like a brilliant,
gleaming badge of honor.
But it was one that I never asked for.
Worn without choice
or the ability to claim
a different perspective,
a different name.
I give myself a new description,
a title that encompasses
the pain and infliction.
I am persistent.
Resilience is to bend
and not break.
To rebound
after being stretched
or to take
what you’ve been given
and realign.
Not allowing the experience
to continue to define
who you are.
But I am altered.
I spring back,
but not to my original shape,
taking on a new form,
visible tears in my cape.
I am not superhuman.
Survival is not resilience.
It is grit.
To continue despite suffering,
an unwillingness to quit,
fighting for a chance
to know wellness,
a narrative
that doesn’t succumb
to illness.
My body reacts
even when my mind is still.
I shake, tremble, sweat, and fill
with overpowering restlessness.
Engaging my senses,
starting with sight,
attempting to subdue
fight or flight.
I tap bilaterally—
left, right, left, right—
to stay in my body
and gain her trust,
knowing that dissociation
is likely a must
to cope
with the emotional flooding.
Sometimes she listens.
Other times
I remain imprisoned
in an adrenaline-riddled cage.
My brain, clouded by fog,
messaging jumbled.
Externally composed,
but internally
I crumble.
I’ve been told
more times than I can count
just how calm I appear.
Outwardly, I mask
and swallow my fear
into the shadows
where I so often dwell.
A culmination of experiences,
painstakingly forged in hell.
I get overwhelmed
trying to make decisions—
invaded, infiltrated,
intimidated by visions
of memories
of the past.
Reminders
of the last time
that I trusted myself
to listen
to the advice of a doctor
that was so freely given.
My brain believes
that I am at fault.
I said yes.
I chose the path
that led to pain.
I am the reason.
Forced to sustain
unintentional consequences,
rare complications,
atypical
to the general population.
The only way to protect myself now
is to make the right choice—
to prevent harm by avoiding
and block out the voice
that tells me
I could be safe
if I am brave.
How do I know
which choice is correct?
How do I know
which way to direct
without being able
to foresee the future?
Choices
which will inevitably suture
or undo
the shredded remnants
of my mind.
It’s not as if I can rewind.
The past has been written,
and the only way forward
is through.
At times
I revel in my pain.
And while I know
that sounds insane,
it gives me validity.
Fearing stability
and days with less symptoms,
the tangible pain
gives me relief—
a way to process
and believe my grief.
I know I’m not faking.
After years of being ill,
it is hard not to feel
like it’s all in my head.
I am a professional patient.
While waiting
to meet a new provider,
I scan the room
and search for clues
that I’ll be considered a liar—
that the events
that are about to transpire
will leave me feeling assaulted,
blamed and faulted.
Vaulted.
As soon as I sense
the shift in a room,
my body fills
with pending doom.
I know
when I’m not being heard.
Faces shifting,
a lack of presence,
rushed attention.
I quickly shift tactics—
a new intervention.
I ask questions
I know the doctor
wants to hear.
Grabbing hold of the reins
in an attempt to steer
the interaction
back toward empathy.
I practice my responses
to imaginary rejection,
preparing myself ahead
as a form of protection.
My body wears the scars—
the ramifications
of years of trauma,
illness, and devastation.
I go through the motions,
test after test,
like an act of devotion,
holding onto the notion
that all of this pain
might lead to relief.
The wounds might be healed,
no matter how brief—
a break from the anguish.
Stumbling on language,
sometimes I cry,
I beg,
I loudly proclaim:
Don’t touch me.
Keep your hands off my body.
I am not the same.
I trusted doctors
at one time.
And while I was far from fine,
I believed myself
and my own experience.
Now I feel trapped
within a system,
no longer able to hear
my inner wisdom—
her voice shrouded in fear.
Making it impossible to hear
over the alarms
and warning,
the desperate sobs
of a spirit in mourning
for the life
ripped from its grasp.
The bar of tolerance
continues to rise—
capsize—
blending the line
of consent
and obligation.
Altering the foundation
on which I built my values,
the beliefs
I hold onto
as my body betrays me.
You see,
we had an agreement.
I do everything right,
and things would improve.
I guess, to some extent,
what they say is true.
Balancing the amount
that I carry
and the ability to do
all that I must
to keep going.
This uncanny ability
to withstand trying conditions,
to continue to trust
treatments and clinicians,
to pull myself back
from near-death experiences
and continue to engage.
Instead of closing the book,
I turn the page.
A poem by Jen Jungenberg
April, 2026
