Dear Sana,
You asked me to tell you what I see — what the outside vision of you is. However, to be honest, I am not sure how to do that. I am not outside. We sit on the same sofa, you borrow my shoes and I wear your earrings. My perspective will not be the same as your doctor’s or your teacher’s or your friend’s. For your sake though, I will try.
You are both fragile and indomitable. You grit your teeth and raise your chin, waiting for the cross to follow the jab. You even do that when you are singing.
I can see how tense you are, all the time. Your shoulders are stiff with waiting, and even when you sleep you hold yourself still, almost rigid, waiting for the dizziness, anticipating a fall, flinching against the noises that might send you into nausea again.
You are pale with black caverns for eyes, or expertly made up with a hint of pain and wariness beneath the perfectly blended eye shadow.
You are angry and brittle with the softest lilting voice to belie your rage.
When you are dizzy, you lurch through the room like a car being driven by a child. Your limbs flail and you careen into walls and sofas, holding yourself up by stretching your arms till you reach the next milestone. Your arms carry your legs.
Sometimes you curse and keen, when the pain is bad. It used to be that you only cried for the little hurts. Now everything is a little hurt and you save the tears for the moments that you feel you can’t go on.
But, my love, you always go. You go on. You breathe through the fears and fight the chaos in your head. You persevere.
Love, Mom.
Balance 