I fell into a slump, batting somewhere between a .125 and a .150. Solid ground never found my feet. I was troubled by the daily head pain, throbbing and kicking, like a wild bull somewhere in Spain. I would slip two ibuprofen tablets in my mouth after having aspirin earlier in the day, it was hard to decide which one was working. I would taste my own pain wrapped around my tongue like barbed wire.
The funny thing about my pain, I no longer wanted to live with it. I wanted to wrap my skull in a warm blanket and coil the ends around my neck, tightening and closing and constricting, until my neck was painted a shade of purple.
I would sit near the edge of my backroom, occupied by a scale, and swell up with tears. I was far from depressed and more exhausted from the constant strain, much like the terminally ill. I’d prefer a lifelong nap to anything else.
Pain—and there was much of it—tied me to my home . I hated myself for being weak and sick. I was pale, thin, and lost in a swirl of clouded thought. I can say so much about my years tied to the house: washed out days and thunderous nights in the parlor that is my head. A wildwest saloon shootout occurred daily. But I never forgot how good it felt to be alive. When the pain stops, I can dream; I can contribute. I never lost sight, not even though the tears and the streams of electric pain urging me to hit the final killswitch.
I survived. I endure.