On those days where I’m really questioning my mortality, I’ll open up my bottles of medication, pour them out into my hands or on my bed and just stare at the tiny pink and white pills. Right there in front of me is a way out, but this frightens me more than it gives me comfort. For about an hour I’ll have the same conversation with myself that I do every time I pop the lid on my little orange prescription bottle. The logical thinking that I used to pride myself on is in such conflict with the way I feel most days, and that alone tears me apart. This disease has eaten its way into every facet of my life, and now it is trying to take my reasoning from me.
Posted on: Apr 13, 2011 at 10:47 AM
- ch0lera posted this