I am resentful and I have good reason to be, though I know I direct that resentment at the wrong people sometimes. Lately I find it hard to relate to the appeal of self-medication, of self-destruction: the poetry of how good it can feel to hurt. I do not have the privilege to spiral anymore. I sit or I stand or I sink down on both knees but I never lay down. I do not indulge. I do not lash out. I do not speak up. I do not cry. I wake up early and get my nephew his chocolate milk and I wash the dishes by hand while I pray for things I shouldn’t. I no longer have the instinct to fight or flee. I only know how to endure.