I’m a couple of weeks into another flare up. Like all other flare ups, I cannot see the end. I’m reminded of when I wrestled my brother in the pool. That moment he got the upper hand. That moment he had me underwater. I remember the burning lungs and the panic. I remember the struggle for just a breath of air. Oh, that brief respite that is unceremoniously interrupted by another trip under the surface. That’s what we did for fun. We tried to drown each other.
I’m laying on the couch because my knees are throbbing, my left sacroiliac joint feels like it’s crushed under an elephant, and my lower spine–my bones feel like they are burning. I just need a short hiatus to catch my breath. I’m drowning and I’m at the mercy of my body in revolt. You would think that you could grow accustomed to chronic pain. Maybe some do, but I can’t. I cannot see beyond this veil.
I’m told that people outside my prison cell thrive and enjoy life. I just want to catch my breath before I go under again.