At first, I thought it was my appetites.
They seemed ravenous and unsatiated.
Then I noticed it.
The absence of the taste of sensation.
Every indulgence was in the hope of it.
But there was none.
Life tastes like white chalk.
It all tastes exactly the same to me.
The worst part is that I can remember what it was like to taste.
Both the good and the bad.
The good I still pursue, but in too great a quantity.
The bad… the unthinkable, I do in search of any taste at all.
Yet, the only lingering taste is that of shame.
And that makes it even worse.
Because I don’t taste it nearly as much as I ought to.
22 Pushups a day will never stop the bleeding of the 22 veterans we’re losing every day to suicide and will definitely give no hope or resource to those living in the drab grey world of PTSD. I’ve called the hotline before, myself. Unless we can show each other how to think our way through this shit, nothing will ever change. No doctor or counselor who has never experienced it will ever be able to do this for us. We must do it for ourselves and shine the light back on the trail for those behind us.