Here, in this place, inhabiting whatever version of myself this is, I can catch myself, gather perspective, breathe, before I climb back to whatever it was I thought I was doing before this most recent descent began.
Maybe I wont this time, is this my last fall?
Am I done?
And yet, I keep clinging on.
I’m back here again. I have to become this person again. I can’t eat, can’t sleep. A broken razor lays discarded on my floor and blood stains the walls. In my dreams I wonder the coast and smoke.
For a moment there, when I was someone else, I’d imagined that perhaps I could put this behind me… What if these scars aren’t the sum of me? What if another life was possible? I could stop taking this medication, I could be real, could feel real again.
I was wrong.
I’m back here. If I stop taking the medication now will I die? Do I want this? To be this person again? Is this my only choice left now, to become this blood soaked avatar of a life I regret, doomed to an eternal cycle of misery and death?
Who am I fucking kidding?
I’m Matt Illman.
We can go from there.