It never occurred to me in The Road Ahead

That all the emotional work I’ve put in, the physical pain I’ve endured, that the healing wouldn’t lead anywhere.

I thought, naively I suppose, that once I reached a point in the healing process, that things would get better. But I’m still mentally reaching for a razor. The base of spine itches and tingles, my pain senses going wild.

I’ve been a prisoner in my body. I’ve been a prisoner in my mind. But freedom feels suspiciously like what I’ve already known. I’ve never claimed to know what I’m doing, but this is getting ridiculous even by my standards.

My hearts beating out of my chest, I’m on high fucking alert. Shaking hands pressed against my forehead tell me the fever is imagined, but the isolation is not.

I wish I could drown myself in platitudes and niceties. And as much as I love that kitten telling me to hang in there!, my lips pull back over my teeth and a snarl rips out.

The edges and colors of my jigsaw pieces are too different, too heavy, too much. I don’t think I’ll ever fit again. Put me in a baggie, I never had a box. Put me in a drawer, the junk one is fine. Maybe you’ll find a use for me that I couldn’t find myself.