I can’t help but think, as I lie awake at night: it must be wonderful to be illness-free. To be able to function normally, and to the best of your ability.
To not be held back by both mental and physical restraints, that seem to turn everything you try and do to shit.
It must be nice.
No matter how hard I try, how many days I get up and try and fight harder to carry on… I will always fail somehow. I will always make mistakes. And because of them, I will always be broken back down to a bare skeleton of functionality. For don’t other people just love to see you fail? And to berate you into a pile of crumpled fear, when they see you succumb to said failure.
Well, no matter… because in the end, people like us, we have a choice….
We either succumb to our afflictions, give in and let go of this world… or we continue to fight. We claw, and we scratch and fight our way out of the dirt after every beating. We are thrown to the wolves, and still we stand up again and fight for our lives.
And so here I am, fighting for another day. There will be no victims here. I will not sob and wait helplessly to be rescued like a princess. Because this is who I chose to be. A fighter. And I will carry on.