In ten years I had forgotten what it felt like. My sickness, the demon that shivers beneath my skin. I’d forgotten how it felt; I’d forgotten what it was. The crushing agony, the exact flavor of the pain–I’d been ever so gently medicated all this time.
I used to think to myself, it must have been hard when I was young because I just hadn’t yet felt anything worse. I would think, I’ve certainly reached new heights of despair since. I would think, I’m just strong enough now that I would no longer do anything, anything just to make it stop.
If only.
It shines in the mirror as a shadow behind me; the same pain that was always there. But what I’ve actually grown strong enough to do is just imprison myself in a cage of my own temperance. I feel nothing but unending pain and do absolutely nothing to abate it.
Take away all the shit you aren’t supposed to do to yourself and what do you have left? Nowhere to hide, nothing to suffice the morphine you need, and no permanent way out of your own hell. Just wave after wave of agony, army after army of ghosts, and nightmare after nightmare after nightmare.
Method of Mancy 