Epilogue Two
T hey’d fucked with everything, they’d messed up my workspace, they’d taken all my fucking supplies, you know, the substances they were demanding I stay away from, and they were taking away the very things that kept me from losing my mind.
They think they’re helping me, but they don’t realise that they’re destroying what’s left of me, one piece at a time. The diary entry they found, the ‘suicide note’… I’d definitely hit rock bottom then, but being without the very chemicals that made my brain work on another level, that kept everything else dulled down, well, let’s just say this felt like a new low.
Was it possible for me to survive without chemical intervention? And if I even could, was it fucking worth it? Was any of it? I felt like the world had changed on me, for the brief time I’d been comatose, and I desperately wanted back what I’d lost. How dare they make life-changing decisions for me while I slept? What fucking right did they have to impose rules over me, like I was an errant child?
Maybe a little would help me get back on top again. I just had to find a way to make that happen, without losing everything else I’d worked for.