Repetition.

Who even am I anymore? I try, I’ve tried, to distance myself, to walk away from this, but once again, I find myself back here, occupying this persona, this voice I have created. It provides a way out, one of my final coping mechanisms before the fall.

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.

Who knows?

Maybe I wont this time, is this my last fall?

Am I done?

Fuck.

I’ve tried.

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.

Again.

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.

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