Of pain and a troubled relationship with its imperfect, impermanent cure.

It’s 0330 or so. An errant pain spike has woken me up.

The realization that it now takes a double of my pain meds has me feeling some type of way. Those would be scared and disappointed.

___

For a long time I have felt that these things are just a crutch for weakness. Specifically my weakness. And I can’t stand thinking of myself in that zone.

But lying here, I… Almost know better.

With my pain almost wrangled, I can feel the three worst parts inside of me so clearly—the tear just near the diaphragm; the one in my middle, the one that fails me so often sitting up; the one that starts low and radiates into my groin.

I’m able to swallow water that I carried in a bottle next to me. It’s my first intake since Sunday. The sensation of “thing in stomach” has revived pain center number three.

Drinking water is pain. But I hadn’t had it in a day. I am not brave enough yet to try food.

___

0340. Nauseated. Praying that sleep takes me back. It was only an hour of respite.

I am not OK.

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