I’m Still Here

A friend texted me yesterday and asked, “How are you today?” 

My eventual response was, “Picture someone walking on a tightrope doing their best not to fall off.”

It was the closest I could come to explaining how I felt that morning—and how I’d felt pretty much every morning for days. Hell, who am I kidding? It wasn’t just the mornings. Afternoons and evenings were fair game, too. 

I entered into a significant CFS flare-up a little over a week ago that just hasn’t wanted to let up, or at least not at the speed I’d like. Hey, I tend to be ambitious! BUT, my body and nervous system don’t seem to share that ambition. 

So, I wait. And wait. And wait. Until the symptoms ease and I can function at a level that feels somewhat normal again. 

In the meantime, every move is a calculation.

Do I take a shower, or do I save that energy for something else?

How many clients can I see today—if any? This week?

Can I push through this moment, or do I need to lie down before my body makes the choice for me and collapses?

And then there’s the continual effort to silence – or at least calm – the part of me that compares—
To those who seem to navigate chronic illness better than I do.  To those who choose to “push through” because they “have to.” Shouldn’t I do better? Shouldn’t I do the same? 

But I’ve lived in this body long enough to know my limits, and I know the consequences when I don’t listen. When I push too much, I crash harder. And I stay down longer.

Which brings me back to my tightrope metaphor. 

When I sent that text, it made me think about a poem I wrote back in 2021. When I found and reread it, I thought, “Yeah, that’s about right.”

I wrote Here in the thick of severe PTSD—so severe that, at one point, I couldn’t hold a job. It was my effort to capture those moments of pain, struggle, and the overwhelming question: How do I get through the next moment, and…. do I even want to?

Those severe PTSD days are behind me (yay!), though when my other chronic conditions flare, I still find myself back on that tightrope, wondering when it will end—when I’ll feel normal again. And yet, there’s always that voice whispering:

You’ll be okay. Somehow, you’ll get through—just like you always do.

With Love,

Ronda

Here

By Ronda Suder – originally posted June 2021.

Her breath is gone.

The wind took it away last night in her dreams.

She sat there in the dark. She wanted to awake to see the sun one more day. At the same time, she never wanted to awake again; to remain asleep; to let everything that life brought to the weary wash away.

The darkness surrounded her as the internal debate began.

“I can remain here,” she thought, “I can remain here where life no longer exists. Yes, maybe I can.”

She held her breath. 

She was ready to let go, to free fall to a lack of existence.

She sat there in the dark. She wanted to awake to see the sun one more day. At the same time, she never wanted to awake again; to remain asleep; to let everything that life brought to the weary wash away.

The darkness surrounded her.

“You must remain,” she heard the presence of her ancestors speak, “Your time is not yet complete.”

Would she breathe again? 

She was ready to let go, to free fall into the abyss of perceived freedom. 

She sat there in the dark. She wanted to awake to see the sun one more day. At the same time, she never wanted to awake again; to remain asleep; to let everything that life brought to the weary wash away.

The darkness surrounded her.

Stay?

Or go?

On the tightrope of choice, she stood.

Then, she heard the presence of her Soul and her Spirit speak, “Your life is worth living.”

And thus, on the tightrope of choice, she made the choice to remain. 

She is not going anywhere. 

She is here.

Ronda Suder, LLC copyright 2025