Getting Rough Again.

Some days the poison is thick and clotted in my throat, and I can barely swallow each hour. This may as well be a cancer of the brain. A sort of emotional cancer that sucks me dry of energy, skill, motivation. A rag doll, a spent thread. I feel old. I feel dead. The heaviness is so consuming it becomes light. I become light, light as death. I long for sleep. I long for the darkness so I can excuse getting into bed at any such hour and just collapsing. I miss the simplicity of having a future, a vision, a dream. I feel like dead weight on this earth. In this chair, I rot. My heart rots. I face annihilation on a daily basis. I mean, I think of it, I contemplate it.

I have a future. I have dreams. And I can reach them. I have to remember that. I also have to deal with my illness like an illness. I need therapy. I need to change the my thought patterns. I need to exercise. I need to do these things to survive. Not only to survive, but to live. I must, I must, I must.

About Undecided Pseudonym

A woman who remembers enjoying writing.
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