It is always strange when one's brain is doing battle with itself.
The old thoughts, smooth and comfortable as silk, slipping through the troughs of my mind, while the new thoughts, rough and unburnished as coal, like an atherosclerotic plug, blocking the artery of thought.
I would go back on my meds, but I know how they affect my ability to think, and that is not a luxury I wish to sacrifice for an artificial boost.
I don't really need them, anyway. I will find the strength, somehow, to withstand, withstand and withstand. I don't know any longer whether that is a statement of fact, or whether I am merely attempting to convince myself of something that has never been true.
It makes me feel queasy to think of J, to think of how much hope and optimism she had for me; a kid she had known for a measly few months, but whom she was sure could conquer the world, if she'd only eat. I remember a day when a doctor walked into the ward, chattering excitedly about a short story or an article she'd just had published. J smiled at me, and told me that that could be me. I was, and am still, utterly perplexed and amazed by her unadulterated certainty; her unthinking, unquestioning, assuredness that I could make something of myself.
I wish only to somehow grasp a small portion of her hope, her faith in me, harness it and hone it; maybe then I could be someone.
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