Dearest me, these constant efforts to make me well are getting old. To be honest, I'm done. I no longer have the desire to attempt to make peace within my body. Nothing works; the diets, the psychotherapy, the pills, nothing. Every time it fails, a little piece of me dies, deep down where nobody's been. The piece inside that offers me hope for a moderately normal lifestyle. The piece inside that says "It'll be over soon, just close your eyes and pretend you're elsewhere, maybe the next round of blood tests will come back with good news". The little glimmer of faith that tomorrow will be a better day. Sure, it might seem childish to give up now, but seriously....I've been doing this for as long as I can remember. Now, when I was younger, it wasn't as painful, frequent, or long-lasting as it is now, but it was still there. At least this time I know food doesn't make a difference, so I don't have to attempt to starve myself.
Hmm, if I ever have rats again, I'm naming one Karma. Or perhaps Braxten and Morris. Yes, and then I can get some rest. My room is too quiet without my girls scampering about and nibbling their food. Now the only thing that gets me sleeping like a baby is Yo Gabba Gabba, or re-runs of low-budget horror movies on Chiller, oddly enough. Can't sleep through The Upside Down Show, those British accents are simply too adorable.
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