I thought you were my sickness. When you festered and bubbled on my skin, I tried to cure myself of you. I thought that if I got rid of you, everything would be okay. But you kept coming back. I kept letting you back.
You were just another symptom.
You are not the cause of my misery, and I know that now. You are just something I bring in to occupy my mind, so that I don’t have to see my real problem. All the time you are here, causing me pain, polluting my life, you are just distracting me from the truth. I bring you back every time things get bad. It’s so much easier to hate you than it is to fix myself.
I will enjoy the damage you cause me, and when my real illness subsides I will throw you away and pretend that action solved my problems. And when my misery starts again, I will blame you.