Sick.

I’m sitting here. Laying here. My TV is off because there is nothing on it. I can turn it on, sure. I’m staring at my laptop, and when I’m not doing that, I’m staring at my phone. Waiting for a text from a friend. From anyone…

My stomach hurts right now. Sharp stabbing pains along my waist. I’m bloated and I’ve been aching all day long. I think of many reasons as to why I’m hurting, but none of them are enough to calm me down. My head hurts, right between my eyes. My ears ring, I won’t even listen to music because of it.

And it continues. The thing I hate. Every day, cowering in my four walls, afraid. Scared of dying, getting sick, failing at my life. Scared of being alone, scared of being unable to prove the world wrong.

It comes down to questioning if there is actually something wrong with my body. Something wrong with me… Or am I making up illusions to make some form of sickly comfort to a greater problem that lies in my head? Am I a mental case?

I can’t tell. I’m the patient, regardless the diagnosis. I’m the sick one.

I need a cure.

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