I measure my pain in meters, in feet, in
inches. My life is spent measuring the distance it takes for me to go from one
position to the next, and breathing just to remember there is more to life than
space. When you ask me how I am, you do not want to know the truth. You want me
to smile, to tell you I’m fine, and I do, but it is always a lie.
I am
never fine. I am always screaming out my agony in little winces, in the pauses
I take before moving, in the soft sighs I let slip when I know you aren’t
paying attention. Every task has a price; every movement is paid for with cut
glass against my skin. My bones hurt, my body is no longer mine to control, to
command. I am at the whim of a thing no one can see, but I feel it with every
part of me.
My
pain is not me, but I am my pain. It robs me, taking from me my hopes, my
dreams, my passion, my mind. I cannot think past the sharp angles I feel under
my skin.
