My Own Prison

As the things I love and enjoy get taken from me one by one I would like to think there is a reason for it. Maybe I am a bad person and deserve what I get. Maybe I was ungrateful for those things in my life that are gone now. Maybe it is a test. Maybe it is nothing at all.

I had a life once filled with things I cherished. I looked forward to each day and savored the moment because it may be my last. I smelled the roses along the way and stopped to enjoy the view. What happened to it?

Letters of conditions define who I am now: PTSD, Chronic Depression, Anxiety Disorders, and Diabetes. Who and what I am are gone.

Instead of a life, I have a cell now. I have jailors who keep me in my prison - chained to some thing I can't see, taste, smell, or touch. Its my own prison, built of memories of the past which will not let go and a future that is not worth having.