That which breaks

There’s this strong urge to cut off what offends. If you obliterate something offensive there is always a sense of satisfaction. And it is offensive, isn’t it? Do I bleed for my perceived sins or do they bleed for me, I wonder? Who accepts the hurt, who deals it out?

I feel useless and broken. Like a marionette with strings done too tightly, so that my limbs stand out at odd angles. It is improving, but the rate is so slow that my frustration and tension is building. I realize now that if any part of this were to remain permanent, I would consider myself done. I can barely walk. I can only stand for short periods, and I have to lean on something. Sitting is like being impaled. And when I have the muscle cramps, and the nerve endings seem to light on fire, I can only lay curled up, wondering why I bother at all. I feel strange.

Sometimes in the morning I don’t take the painkillers. I remind myself just how much it hurts and just how much can be tolerated. I am disgusted by my own weaknesses. When I stumble, all alone in the house, I laugh mockingly. I lay on the floor trapped, in so much pain, the tears stream, but I get up anyway, and that scream becomes a hissed growl of resentment and self-hatred.

The human body is a weak, pathetic thing. Mine especially, with its endless flaws, that I constantly am forced to overcome out of necessity. Even exercising to make it better, more tolerable, ruined it further. I’m being punished for trying. But why should that surprise me? I push, and it shouldn’t be too much, yet pathetically enough, it is. I can’t do anything now, but trip over myself and walk with a stick. I don’t know if my forcefulness will worsen or better me. And if my own will might make some of it permanent. My left foot is numb and it worries me. There’s no doctor to ease my mind. I just have a bunch of people telling me it will be fine. Will it?

Only time will tell, as they say.

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