Happy Thursday

Thursday is like a

jack

in

the

box,

sweet, cheery tunes

floating as

the handle is cranked, like the

chirp of

chatter in a

coffee shop, a pleasant

buzz of life,

and just a

hint of

silence,

expectation.

The handle is

cranked until it

catches and

chatter still

refuses to fade, only

intensifying

as Thursday leaps

out

of

her

shell, eyebrows shot

up and under

her bangs,

eyes glistening like

shiny

pebbles,

mouth open and ready to burst

into

laughter or song.

But Thursday’s spring is

well

worn

with use,

creaking

every

time she jumps, no longer provoking the

chuckles

which she seeks,

the

smiles which she longs for.

The others tell her to

grow up and out

of her enclosure,

they tell her to

throw

away

her

spring and yet-

she never stops

popping,

straining,

laughing,

always bouncing,

bouncing, on the

balls of

her feet,

rubbing,

rubbing, her hands

together and sweeping aside her bangs,

eyes

only

growing

brighter

with

each

day.

Thursday is the

longest

day

because she seems to

drag

out

forever,

Friday is soon,

Friday

is

soon,

but she is small enough to fit in

Friday's

shadow

with plenty of wriggle room,

after all,

the sun blazes in

Friday's

face

and

Thursday?

Thursday is

deprived

of that

sun,

instead, she is her

own

sun,

a beacon of

light

brightening all of her

own

days,

nights, she is a

beam,

beaming with energy,

bursting at the seams with positivity,

letting others drink from her tap of energy,

for while theirs may

run

dry,

Thursday

is

overflowing.

I Hate Monday

Monday

is

the busiest

day

of the week

a wayward strand of hair dangling in front of her eyes

red and rimmed with sunken blue

She’s always

running

rushing

toppling

never quite

stopping

for a breath of fresh air

never quite

pausing

to celebrate one more item scratched off her

ever-

growing

list

only wearing down her

grubby

pencil

to its tip

with her constant scribbling

She’s always panting

always heaving

never once believing

in her worth

never once smelling

the flowers on her path

never once tasting

the fruits of her labor

She is misunderstood

They think her clumsy

when she trips on her mile-long list

legs twisted on her tasks

face planted in the fabric

of her constant worry

they think her rude when she

never

comes

to

parties

but what

they

don’t

know

is that it is her back that

cracks and

bends and

wavers with

tasks and

assignments and

Pressure

When she falls they think her weak when really she is

tired

tired of being awoken at the crack of dawn along with the

blue birds

tired of the constant questions,

Why

Monday?

Tired of the constant complaints

When they groan

When they moan

I

Hate

Monday

The dragon

Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, there was a young girl, weak-spirited and naive, held hostage by a massive, terrifying, dragon. Scarlet scales as dark as blood lined its ginormous frame, it’s wingtips were sharp, far sharper than a saber’s deadly blade, and its eyes, those beady, black eyes were wells reaching to seemingly interminable depths, so deep the girl feared she would topple in and never surface. But what stood far out to her was the dragon’s character. It loomed over the metal-barred tower in which she was kept, growing ever more massive, ever more terrifying, with each passing moment, flashing, baring, its ivory white fangs dripping in purple blue blood or spit or poison, flicking, lashing its spiky tail closer than the girl would have liked, drawing out a blood curdling scream from the poor soul, innocent and imperfect and raw, her throat was raw, and she was sobbing, writhing, in agony. It was a spirit crueler than any she’d encountered before.

That dragon was Crohn's disease, and as for the little girl? That little girl was me. When I was just 8 years old I was one of 780,000 Americans diagnosed with Crohn’s disease, a sickness that most commonly affects your large or small intestine. Symptoms include stomach pain, weight loss, bleeding in your stool, or delays in growth. Oh, and there’s one more crucial detail that you need to know to understand me, and hundreds of other’s stories all over the world; Crohn’s is a chronic disease. It’s life long, and there is no cure. Treatments, yes, to keep the hungry dragon at bay, but no way to fully banish it. But I wouldn’t, no I couldn't let this knowledge discourage me. Armed only with positivity and hope, I started to fight. Diets, needles, surgeries, procedures, pills, needles, tests, blood, medicine, blood, repeat. The cycle never seemed to end. Finally, just last year, I started Remicade injections. And, soon, every time I smiled, that dragon shrieked in agony, every little chuckle sent it wheezing in pain, so I embraced and kissed and lived and loved and tried and failed and tried again and embraced and kissed and lived and loved and- until it faded to but a wisp.

My next infusion is coming up. And so are a whole lot more. But I know that, no matter what fire I must dodge, what hardships I must overcome, I am not giving up the fight. And neither are all of the children with Crohn's much more severe than my own. We are not giving up the fight. We are not giving up the fight.

Once upon a time, in a faraway kingdom, there was a young girl, weak-spirited and naive, held hostage by a massive, terrifying, dragon. Every battle she fought, every bruise she got, every risk she took, every pill single she swallowed, she grew stronger. Once upon a time there was a little girl. Now there is a warrior.