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You Make Me Sick

But it’s I who allows it

“It is the great mass of mankind, the mob, the people, who create the permanently bad times. The world is only the mirror of ourselves. If it’s something to make one puke, why then puke me lads, it’s your own sick mugs you’re looking at!”
— Henry Miller

I used to think it was you who made me sick, coming around and giving me strep all the fucking time. I used to think stress defeated me to the point of bronchitis, relapsing into a coughing fit every time the thought of you arose. I used to think my stomach twisted itself into knots at the mere thought of you, because of you. I used to think the tears rolling down my face, cooling my cheeks hot with rage, were all your own doing.

But now I’m a little bit wiser, a little bit more mature, a little bit more introspective, a little bit more worldly, a little bit more forgiving, a little bit more reflective.

I now realize it’s not you who makes me sick: it’s me.

it’s me

You did me dirty, that’s for damn sure (damn sure, meaning in my mind, that’s how I’ve seen it play out). But does that justify the feelings I allow to pierce through my veil of otherwise enjoyment for life and self and wonder? Does me playing the victim conquer those painful memories that are conjured in my mind’s eye every time…