I pass a mirror and gasp, surely that wasn’t my face staring back at me. If it were, it would be gray, crisscrossed with deep, black furrows cutting into the flesh and dead eyes consumed with pain the doctors can’t fix and refuse to treat. It would be tight, drawn, ugly.
My face would reflect the self-doubt clouding my mind, it would redden at the thought of my insecurities and shortcomings. It would smolder with the anger over lost careers, relationships and skills, all stolen by the pain. A river of tears would flow over bloated cheeks, representing lonely hours, sleepless nights and a mountain of pills taken in vain.
How can that seemingly normal face staring back at me, be mine?
Musings From the Turnip Patch 