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i tried to kill myself. i have survived the winter, and spring is coming

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Nov. 14th, 2011 | 01:32 am

“does he take your thoughts away?”
“Yeah, I have to concentrate on what I was thinking of to think of what I was thinking”
“do you notice a difference in your attention since your illness?”
“... what?”
“ Do you notice a difference in your attention since your illness?”
“ yeah. I uh, um.... what was that?” She shifted in her chair uncomfortably. Angry with herself for not remembering what it was she was supposed to be remembering.
"how do you feel about your illness?"
"I guess you could call it an illness."
"how do you mean?"
"there's definitely something living in me... or, thrashing in me, but it doesn't mean i'm ill. it's more... you know, the sick and tired type."
"how does it make you feel?"
“i hate it! It's killing me!” her thought is interrupted by a sharp laugh.
“There's this awful itch behind my rib cage! it's like a painful tickling in my chest.” she laughed as hard as she could to keep the tears in her stomach. i waited through the fit of laughter, waiting for her to take that last big breath of composure. She wiped the hollowed tears from her face, smearing the mascara into her crows feet.
“it's absolutely killing me.”

She didn't understand why I kept calling it an illness. I presumed she was mentally disturbed due to the significant lack of attention and strange delusions. But she only challenged my assertions by claiming i had something living, or thrashing, in me too. she could see it.

“i have a hard time sitting down and reading.”
“when you're on the medicine?”
“yeah when im on the medicine. I pick up a book and read for a minute, pick up a newspaper and read that for a minute and then pick something else up and start reading it.”
"what else does your medicine do?"
she inhaled, ready for response, but immediately aborted the words. they must not have been the right ones. or maybe she was forgetting. just as i was about to restate the question, she responded, in a manner that was placid and detached,"it makes the memory of him float, muted and forgotten. i breath easier, i sleep more, i eat more, but i think less. a lot less."

"what else does he make you do?"
"he makes me shake. he makes my left side shake. I tried to cut him out of my left arm." she showed me the scar that ran down the length of her forearm.
"i just can't rip it out anymore. the scab is too thick, and it just keeps coming back."

“He just made me so tired. i tried to kill myself. I have survived the winter, and spring is coming.”

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