I’ve grown accustomed to the physical symptoms over the last fifteen years. Lately I imagine that every sharp burst of pain is a flat piece of paper that I isolate and crumple, smaller and smaller until it  is a ball the size of a head of a pin and then I bury it, as deep as I can as if my mind were a well with no bottom. I do this over and over each time I remember how much it hurts. If you lay really still and imagine your mind is a balloon that hovers miles above your body, a string that gets longer and longer. It doesn’t help. But it might, and so you do it anyway. 

12:15 am  •  16 January 2012  •  8 notes