Dear Reader, P2, Please read the other parts as well
I wonder what it would’ve been like to grow up differently. Perhaps with fewer mental roadblocks. Possibly with a brain that wasn’t constantly shifting channels without warning. I’ve been trying so hard lately, writing a book that digs into the mess of identity, lying, family, and mental illness, designing guitar lesson plans, building a future from scratch, but I still feel like I’m falling short. I stay up through the night, not because I want to, but because sleep won’t come. My body is exhausted, but my mind refuses to rest. Insomnia has become my shadow, and no one around me really knows what it’s like to be stuck in a room with nothing but thoughts that spin and spin and spin.
I was once told I only had a few days left to live. The sickness would overtake me. My physical health draining the life out of my soul and the spirit in my skin would be released, to carry me up to God. However, some of the medicine is working, just enough, to keep me alive. My sentence has been extended to two years. I wonder, though, if it would have been better to depart in those two minutes than in the two years to come. Without my person, my life would not mean what everyone deserves. Love, value, and worth. Though little, there is value in each breath I take. With this worth, comes fear. I fear I am lucky to have. If this fear did not exist, my life would be nothing, and my world would end. I am scared to die because I have someone to care for. But I am scared to suffer because I have someone to protect. What is terminal illness when the life expectancy changes? If this is the case, then aren't we all terminally ill?
Copyright ©
Amanda Nolan
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