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Dear M.E

I’m getting used to the words incurable, painful, and the sentence, “Its hard to diagnose and difficult to treat.”

You started off in my life as bouts of severe fevers, headaches, swollen glands, and many missed days of school. I was four. When I started secondary school the stress of the change encouraged you to grow, you became all the more vicious. i missed so much school and then that same year my great grandma grew sick, the worry, stress and grief was something you fed off of, you stormed my body like an army, I cried from grief and from pain, i could barely move, days, weeks, months off of school, so they started to call in the social workers, dragging me out of class to meet this smarmy women who was determined to convince me i was fine. The odd day I made it there my teachers gave me disapproving stares, my friends were used to me not being there, The only place i wanted to be was at home.

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cfs, Dear M.E

Dear M.E

When asked the question, “If you could go back ten years knowing all you know now, would you?” I think of all the things i’ve had power to change, the things I would change about myself now, and answer no. because all the time machine’s ¬†in the world, all the hours taken back, recounted, like miles in reverse, would not change you, M.E, you were not a mistake i made as a child, like falling off the climbing frame, you were a fate forced upon me with inevitability, ten years back in in time would not change you, only lengthen you, that piece of string you are would grow inexplicably longer.

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cfs, Dear M.E

Dear M.e

Shushhh. ShUT UP. I kind of wish you were a separate entity I could make a deal with, compromise with, or ideally leave far, far behind, ditch you on the side of the road or something and drive off with glee. ¬†But you’re like a internal¬†rumpelstiltskin, you have a price for everything, the small print with you is so tiny and elaborate I never quite know what I’m signing away.

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Dear M.E

Dear M.E

You have a sister, she is called anxiety.

Like you and your best friend, you are her just fit, compliment each other in ways that are worse for me. she is the hammer, you are the nail, and I am a bad DIY job, that you feel indebted to make worse. I look like a porcupine with all these nails in me.

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