by Edwina Maria Thompson
She hadn’t seen it coming, though the warning signs were there.
Invisible, insidious, ‘the Black Dog’ stripped her bare.
The mountain she had climbed this year, seemed gentle in it’s wake.
What faced her now… like Everest, on this her soul could break.
She knew it all, the world of Google played within her hand.
‘Feelings After Cancer’ threads, to help her understand.
But nowhere did she seem to find, the thoughts that plagued her head.
While others feared it might return… she felt a hope, not dread.
She saw the others round her fight, the battle she had won.
Amazing women, mother’s, girls… just not the place for some.
And randomly it seemed to take, the ones who least deserved.
She couldn’t see or understand, why she had not been served?
A bitter guilt engulfed her mind…
Why them? And why not her?
Their lives so precious, hers was not. Her logic was a blur.
Then memories and echoes cried, those words she’d heard before.
Oh God, she was again, in Hell. Depression had the floor.
How had she missed how close she was? That cliff was bearing down.
Without a thought, she’d took that step. So slowly she would drown.
And now she clung, with fingers gripped, from depths that welcome call…
“Go on, let go, you know you must. Into the darkness fall.”
It felt so easy, letting go. Just let depression win.
She’d fought this once, she knew the drill… quell voices from within.
But where to start? Her yoga mat no longer held the key.
Instead, it now just made it worse, her body wasn’t free.
For cancer and it’s treatment had, left side effects so cruel.
No longer could she hold her pose, it’s energy to fuel.
The very thing she knew would help, it left her feeling weak.
There had to be another way, allow her soul to speak.
She knew her tribe of warriors, around her they would fight.
If poses couldn’t help her now, then maybe she could write?
Each time she felt that darkness come, her pen to paper place?
A call for help? This battle now, alone she couldn’t face.
The pieces of her broken self lay scattered all around.
But sifting through, not recognise a single piece she found.
The cancer patient, her she knew. That fight she understood.
No wonder that her wishes were, return to that she would.
For this was cancer’s final knife. Content with body? No.
This evil bastard went for mind. To have it’s final blow.
Somewhere within, she made that choice. She knew she had to cope.
Herself, her girls, the ones she loved; for them she would find hope.
Edwina Maria Thompson