How ironic, “Better in Time” spins on my iPod as I sit to write – something – anything that resonates with me.

Birthdays have never been an issue until very recently. On the precipice of a new one, I’ve turned eerily inward. Nightmares are vivid, long and rampant. A scorched heart vibrates anger paired with sorrow. Eclipsed only by shame for not overcoming what should’ve been defeated in 08’. Unanswered questions in pillowy letters loop in bold, italics,
“You are the problem in your life.”

Dissipating anger for my doctors swapped by anger at “disease”, my disease, a disease that defines me instead of me defining it. Fixating on time and opportunities lost. They vanished into the fog at a time when I thought my yarn was spinning together. Incapable of forging onward with a degree of purpose, stuck between who I was and who I want to be. The answer resides in the middle. I know it. I see it. Yet, I can’t seem to live it.

I wonder, am I alienating the outside world, or saving them from me? Avoiding those closest to me, or protecting them from my anger, frustration and sadness?

This isn't a nightmare I won't wake up from. This disease is real and never-ending. "Accept the things I cannot change"... right? Wrong? Or irrelevant? Does it even matter?

Truth or excuse: If it wasn't in my face every day, literally and figuratively, I would see it differently.

One day, we will live side-by-side, otherwise, it will have won. I just wish that day was today.

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