My psychiatrist threatens me with possibility of immobility, that I will be right here in ten more years.
It is the most depressing of all thoughts.
"...flunking community college classes," he continues.
As if this will be my life, one large loop, the circle shrinking, smaller, tighter, strangling me until the day I wake up, fifty, still on federal disability money, one thousand dollars a month, just enough for eating and walking by the roadside--no job, no car, no career.
All beauty wasted.
Perhaps a pretty face could have bought me freedom from hellish poverty, then but in ten years, fifteen, time trampling on, gagging the ones it hates--ugliness is the prison we all spend.
Vanity--our handcuffs.
I'm not getting better, he laminates. There's no improvement, no incline in mood.
There's been a thief in the soul, but no arrests of the guilty party, no fingers pointed, no one to blame. I'm just the raped victim, the trail of blood behind me.
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