I dig my fingers into my forearm and press my lips together tightly. Was I always this numb?
These days, I am perpetually cold, I carry it under my skin six inches deep. These days, I am medicated, my mind buzzes slightly and then shuts down. These days, my words sink into my stomach, I dissolve them with diet Coke until not even the letters that once composed my real thoughts are left.
The things that I refuse to say flood my bloodstream with guilt and shame, until I can't even manage a simple conversation or sustained eye contact, they collect like platelets and clog my veins. I could conceivably take control of this, I could be better than I am at this moment, but instead I wait for the cardiac arrest.
It's only when I hit rock bottom that I know which direction to move.
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