Entry three.

I can't be fixed. Please don't take that for more then it's worth. It's not my heart, my spirit, my deeper metaphysical self. It's my body. I can't be fixed. My body doesn't respond to all of the raw, organic, overpriced vegan foods and $50 supplements or the 5 miles I ran every morning. It also politely ignores the handful of pills that restructure my chemistry and slow down what goes too fast. Ignores the synthesised hormones I pump into myself. It hides whatever it attacks me with from the CT scans, sonograms, dozens of blood tests.
I average 6 weeks between emergency room visits. The nurses know me, the doctors hate me. They've seen me enough to know that there's no clear cause to what's happening so they get me out as fast as they can. 2 years after consistent visits, I'm all but immune to the synthetic heroin they give me. 2 years ago, 1mg had me out for 8 hours the second it hit my brain. Fast forward to January, they've just given me 5mg, I'm awake and coherent but at risk of my respritory system shutting down. They send a 17 year old home with oxycodone. They don't even hand it to my partner, or my father. They hand it to me, without knowing my history of prescription abuse.
I know what should be causing it. I know I deserve it for some Victorian-era autoerotic ritual of infliction and then denial. I know it's the root of my other ailemts. My hypersensitive heart, my hair falling out in handfuls, fainting spells, consistent diziness, the half digested blood I've shit out when it gets really bad. It's obvious what should be causing it, but somehow, that's not it.
Logic even manages to escape my body.