In high school I read F. Scott Fitzgerald’s The Crack Up, an essay describing his bouts with mental illness. His analogy, he was a cracked plate that “will do to hold crackers late at night or to go into the icebox under leftovers” doesn’t really work for a modern reader.
I think of myself as an old plastic container that once held coleslaw or cottage cheese repurposed for leftovers and stuffed in the back of the fridge to be found months later, the contents so covered with green fuzz you think of it as a biology project gone horribly wrong or a bad scale model of the greens at Augusta National.
I think of myself as worthless, hopelessly flawed, good only for the recycling bin.Part of me knows that all objective evidence indicates
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