Werewolves.

    I like to think that I have a pretty good pain threshold. It's not often that something hurts too much for me to deal with, but every couple of months, that pesky condition I have crops up and beats the shit out of me.

    I have a standard level of pain that I deal with every day. My hands, as they deteriorate further, are usually the biggest daily toil. Easy to deal with, however. I know that I can't open jars or give firm handshakes, and I've dealt with the fact that I will drop fifty percent of all things that I pick up.  I fucking hate that of course, I miss my dexterity. I can handle it, though.

    What I can't handle, however, is twelve to fourteen hours of feeling like my insides are being ripped out with a red-hot poker. I play a game with the animal savaging me inside, trying to fight down enough painkillers to put me to sleep before I'm forced to throw up everything in my stomach again. At least three or four times a year, I am right on the verge of killing myself, taking that ten too many pills and never waking up again. Not on purpose, mostly, although I've certainly contemplated it. Since I already feel like I'm dying, killing myself presents itself as an easy alternative.

 I cannot walk when this is happening, I have to crawl on my hands and knees, the dizziness is so severe.  After eight hours or so of the intense muscle spasms, I don't even have the energy to writhe in pain anymore. I just lay there and stare glassy eyed at the ceiling as my organs rearrange themselves into new and horrific shapes, trembling, sometimes praying, telling whatever deity will listen that I would do anything to just make this stop.

    So that's been my day. No energy left for the witty ending line.