I’m a grown-up, an adult, worthy.
I know we’ve long had routines,
those I’m asking to change.
But I’m not asking permission.
Maybe I am, but I’m trying not to,
for that’s the routine I want most
to change.
I’ve always sought your approval,
and still I’d welcome it,
longing all the while to believe it’s given.
I probably have it, from you,
but your disease speaks so loudly
I can’t hear you,
can’t feel warmth through
your gruffness, your attempts
to puff you up, shrinking me.

I’ve come to accept your illness,
your fears disguised as contempt,
as arrogance, as strength.
I’m now accepting my health,
my diminished fears, my foolishness
in believing your bravado.
I cannot hate you, though I despise
your illness, your cruel acts.

I started out saying I want to talk of me.
It’s not true. Those arguments are past.
I just want to be me, recovered, sane,
following God’s plan for my life
one day at a time.

You’re welcome to walk with me, fearless.