Maybe i’m crazy. I feel like there is a level at which I am perfect, fine, just as I am. Quite sane and healthy. On another level, the one I live on each day, I am always sick, my head is a mess, and I feel distant from everything, and very little seems possible. My triggers are worse than they have ever been. I have a sense that crazy me, hypochondriac, sick, frightened, traumatized me, is on the verge of some kind of break, or explosion, like my brain is going to bust from all the thought. My body will collapse from all the draining feelings, and then the shell will drop, the garbage will be dumped, and I will emerge sane, healthy, and dead. I don’t know why I said dead. I just imagine that’s where I’ll be when I get to that point. Or that this perfection is boring, and all this whiney stuff I do, it’s also me.

Every time I go to the Dr. I’m fine. My whole body from head to toe is in pain, or feeling discomfort in some way. My blood pressure is almost always fine, xrays, bloodwork, my eyes, throat is a little red, but that’s it, and the bleeding has an explanation too, nothing sinister, just passive body care. I sit there and I wait for her, and I think about where to begin. Do I talk about the blood on my rectum, the constant pressure on the right side of my head, my achilles tendonitis flaring up, the sore back or the sore thumb? Does any of it matter, I know why most of it’s there.

I feel so far away from everyone. Thoughts of the old life, where I was nice to people and didn’t mean it alot of the time, are fading, it was some other girl, some other Sharon trying to make it all better. I am done. I can’t help anybody, and I don’t want to. I have sacrificed my self all of my life. I tried to be something special for people. Someone nice, soothing, non-judgmental, caring, hopeful, and supportive. I wanted to be hope. I wanted to crack people open, like I have been cracked open, to feel what is happening, to stop the bullshit. I use to think that If I could just say something in my purest voice, youngest, most compassionate and innocent part of me, that still exists, through a mutilingual loud speaker that would reach every soul in the universe, I would say “enough”. The problem is, I don’t feel like I care anymore. I don’t care because I think we deserve what were getting. I don’t care because I’m tired of trying to figure things out. I don’t care because I am alone. I am responsible to 2 cats, a mother who is dying and friends that have their own lives, partners, kids and work. I can be anywhere, free, no mortgage or car, or child, or partner, or company, or job. So why don’t I feel good? Doesn’t everybody want to be free?


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