The poison in the cure

I write.

I’m a writer

I live.

I’m alive

I hurt.

I’m always in pain

My childhood was forged in chronic pain or the promise of it given my genetic condition and resulting disability.

I don’t experience emotions enough and I definitely don’t share enough with the people I love. I’m afraid they’ll love me differently.

So I write.

But when I write, it hurts. My body rejects the truth of the words my mind needs to pour out.

I fainted recently, overwhelmed by the reality that I had lost everything.

So I was starting over, again.

This is the human condition, I understand. But I rebel against the injustice. Will it make a difference? I just need to know.

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