Row by row, I pull the caps off each container and place one pill on either my mouse pad or in one of three other containers. It’s my daily ritual each and every morning when I get up. It’s a ritual I have followed for the last 25 years. In one form or another, rather a single pill or the 16 different pills I now take multiple times a day. Other than making up my bed and checking my blood sugar, it’s all part of a synchronized dance I perform every day. The how, what, and why of each pill is important for knowing what they are doing and how they are affecting me.
Of course with any chemical benefit there are trade-offs, the long-term effects. Like damage to my internal organs. I find it funny how some of my “specialists” are puzzled by the damage to some of my organs. Giving me all kinds of hypotheses as to why. When common sense would tell you, “It’s the chemicals, stupid”. But I just follow along realizing that the ten minutes of their time they give me every three to six months is all I got. But as with all things, my survival is all up to me. Until I finally get to that stage where I don’t remember where the bathroom is, it's all up to me.
So I’m left here staring at this page focused on the apparent misery that I’m probably putting all you through. But it’s the anger that I feel, looking back at my words that fuels my strength to press on. For without that fire the engine of desire that drives me to live doesn’t run. The passion for living would eventually burn out. So what are you left with? A husk, an empty shell of the person you once were. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of being that shell. I may be beat down, but I ain’t dead yet. So I’m planning on saying what I’m here to say and fighting my best fight. Till they spread my ashes over that sacred ground I call home.
Of course with any chemical benefit there are trade-offs, the long-term effects. Like damage to my internal organs. I find it funny how some of my “specialists” are puzzled by the damage to some of my organs. Giving me all kinds of hypotheses as to why. When common sense would tell you, “It’s the chemicals, stupid”. But I just follow along realizing that the ten minutes of their time they give me every three to six months is all I got. But as with all things, my survival is all up to me. Until I finally get to that stage where I don’t remember where the bathroom is, it's all up to me.
So I’m left here staring at this page focused on the apparent misery that I’m probably putting all you through. But it’s the anger that I feel, looking back at my words that fuels my strength to press on. For without that fire the engine of desire that drives me to live doesn’t run. The passion for living would eventually burn out. So what are you left with? A husk, an empty shell of the person you once were. I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of being that shell. I may be beat down, but I ain’t dead yet. So I’m planning on saying what I’m here to say and fighting my best fight. Till they spread my ashes over that sacred ground I call home.
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