?BEFOREANDAFTER?

I don't remember who I was. Who I was before I started the medical treatment. Before I was on pills 24/7. Is this what a drug addict feels like? Only in his or her comfort zone when on pills? (This making the person an addict, considering their happiness depends on the pills. They, themselves, depend on the pills.) Just like me. Just like me.

I'm not used to not having pain, even whilst being in my comfort zone. Somehow, there has never been a conscious moment without any pain, fear or even without doubt.
So now what? Who am I now, in terms of who I was before the pills?

I'm supposed to be fearless and pain free;
I'm supposed not to harm myself anymore.
But these aren't mutually exclusive. I'm scared. Scared of forgetting (or, better even, having forgotten) who I was and who I'm turning into. The only thing I have received, throughout my entire life, is pain.
Whether it had to do with what others did to me or whether it was self-inflicted, it hurt. And boy did it hurt badly.
For some reason I still want to feel a bit of that pain. Not because I'm "emo" or whatever, but because it's the only recognisable, characteristic, vice I still remember from, well.. "Before."

I still cut myself occasionally, for the sake of feeling something; anything. Or press cigarette ends against naked flesh, until it's unbearable to hear the sizzling and to feel the boiling of my flesh. Yes, I still pull my hair under the shower, till the tears start flowing and, yes, I scratch my palms when I'm nervous.
But I am seeing colours again. I see colours around me, now, whenever I look around. It's not easy, believe me- every day is a definite struggle that is (not?) worth writing home about. But at least I know that there are colours outside of a colourless person. Or maybe all the colours I am seeing, are the colours that are coming from my own person.. From the inside. Maybe the pills help me find myself.

I don't know.
I guess it's one of the great mysteries in life that one should not want to know the answer of.
A mystery is a mystery, like a rose is a rose; its thorns don't make it lose its breathtaking smell.