Chronic illness


I am reliant. I depend on others, objects, ideas. All of these things intertwine and make up a net that catches comfort and control, continuously feeding my habits. I  get a shaking feeling in my diaphragm and my ribs. Every time life gives the chance for a new love, a new chance. There is no control in love and it terrifies me. New beginnings though, I crave a new start. Change is not my enemy, betrayal is, lies are, the parts of life that are unknown are. I rely on truth, at least what I believe to be true. I rely on my family, blood or not. I do this by choice, or was raised to do so. Which ever sociology or psychology decides to be true. What I do know about psychology is that I can rely on things that no one would ever ask for. Depression, anxiety, PTSD. The internet jokes on how crippling the all are. Can the truth be funny? Or do they confide in humor like I do with film and fiction. It’s that or sink into my brain, all it does is think and spiral. I can always rely on my emotions to cripple me. But I can entrust my bed to keep me. In those times, I pray to God. I ask for the mind to understand what I need to so that I can have faith. I struggle with faith, not with faith in knowing that He is real but faith in knowing that he is there for me. I rely and idolize the secular beauty of speech. Music, poetry, deep conversation. I rely on it temporary emptiness instead of waiting for the rich things God says he provides. I depend on what is immediate and short tempered. All because I can’t afford to break. I’m terrible at puzzles. If I break I’ll have nothing to fall back on. And I’m terrified that I’ll end my life or spend the rest of my life in pieces. I don’t know which one is worse. So I stay where I’m comfortable not where I could thrive because I am porcelain. My reliance will shatter me, and when it does I then will rely on the right things.

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