Physical vs. Emotional Free-Write

The air was still. Agony was everywhere I looked. Moving was not even worth it because I knew that I couldn’t. No matter how many times I envisioned myself playing soccer, trying to think of the sport I loved, I couldn’t distract myself from the pain that was evident in my body. I couldn’t feel the steel of the thick, cold, silver rods, but I could imagine how it looked tightened into my spine—under the layers of flesh that lie in the depths below my skin. It was possible that it would hit a bone whenever I made the slightest move. The pain would go away but then I inhaled my surroundings, and it was like the pain never died.

 

I couldn’t escape this pain. Day two, and even though I was “improving,” I was truly drowning. Escape didn’t exist while being held under medications and fluids. It didn’t exist when the pain was so real that it was the only thing on your mind. Pineapples that Mother gave to you repeatedly in hopes that someday you would like it as much as she did. It did nothing to improve my restless brain; I was only thinking about what just happened, what could’ve, and probably did, tear up everything inside of me.

 

Cover Picture: Photographer Unknown