Some days, I feel completely amazing. The energy to shapeshift into Superwoman is abundantly at my disposal. Dishes are scrubbed, laundry is folded and put away, with dinner being prepared right after I worked eight hours without a break. I make sure to talk to my loved ones, shower, brush my teeth, and try my best to get enough rest. Most days, I feel like I hardly exist. I become swallowed by sorrow and I have to remind myself to physically breathe. I do the absolute bare-minimum at my job, ignore the plates and silverware overflowing the sink, put on the exact same pajamas I've worn for about two weeks straight and crawl into the comfort of my covers. Any fleeting thought of taking care of myself in any capacity makes me want to vomit, so my body suffers because my brain wants to waive the white flag.

Then the anxiety and paranoia have to make sure I can never truly rest or relax. "You're going to be fired at work." "Everyone hates you and they're plotting against you." "Always check your rearview mirrors every few minutes to make sure you're not being followed." My only footwear consists of non-slip steel toed shoes, I occasionally take alternate routes home, and make sure there's always something to protect myself on my person. I make mental notes of all the glowing exit signs in every building I enter... just to be safe. My mind blurs and it's difficult to keep track of daily events unless I write them down, or there's something important that happened. Sometimes, when I try to visualize myself in my head, there isn't a clear picture - almost as if I were looking into a mirror that's been fogged up by shower steam. I struggle with simple questions: what do I do for fun? What do I do to unwind? What do I do to make myself happy? On the flip side, I don't struggle with difficult questions at all. Someone asking me things like, "How have you survived all of the abuse you've suffered? What was the most traumatic thing you've gone through? What keeps you from giving into self harm and/or suicide?" are as easy as asking me how to make a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Pain has never been a stranger in my life, rather a bittersweet companion.

Child sexual abuse that was tolerated until another child became a victim, raped by a family "friend" as a teenager, tolerating and competing with nine step siblings across Mother's four marriages, watching three family members simultaneously be swallowed by drug addiction, attempting to cope with a dear friend overdosing and surviving the rest of their life with brain damage, grieving multiple deaths... Zac - suicide. Jake - suicide. Anton - unknown. Adam - unknown. Then the toughest one so far: my father, Kyle, who died by his own hand as well. A viciously toxic three and a half year relationship where I was hit, screamed at, kicked out too many times to count, and always taking a backseat to Burnett's vodka made me feel as if I had a successful attempt myself, but my flesh was still walking despite it being a mere husk. Can you believe I've only had one week-long **voluntary** inpatient stay and one suicide attempt? All that to simply say emotional pain and I go together like cold milk and freshly baked cookies.

Pain refused to stop there though. I have a plethora of physical diagnoses to pass out to a small community. I've had a rare form of skin cancer, two lower back surgeries, chronic erosive gastritis, irritable bowel syndrome, acid reflux, chronic pain syndrome, bilateral sciatica, two herniated discs (L3/L4 at 5mm; L4/L5 at 6mm), narrowing and spondylosis of my spinal canal, and way too many procedures to just be thirty years old. I went through fourteen weeks of physical therapy, multiple spinal injections, multiple EGDs and colonoscopies... you get fucking exhausted with existing like this. I wouldn't dare pass this off as living; just going through the motions of my own personal hell disguised as a human experience.

My traumatic lore makes me feel as if I personally pissed in Christ's Cheerios. People offer unwanted advice because they feel like their opinion will just magically improve the situation, when in reality, it just makes them feel better. I've trained myself too well over the years how to pass off fake happiness... the suggestions of yoga, prayers, meditation, and kale aren't going to drag me out of this. Everything feels so heavy, so utterly consuming, and I don't think bubble baths or a sweet treat will help fix this hazard of a human I've developed into... I feel I'm too far gone. It would be like using concealer and foundation to cover a stage 2 hematoma, or putting a Dollar Tree bandage over a .50 caliber bullet wound. I think to myself, "What's the point? Why am I still living?"

And a trembling, child-like voice from within responds: "to become who we needed twenty-five years ago so you can help those who need you now."