The Treason of My Own Bones

Dear Delyara, It is 1:15 AM, and I had to use both hands just to lift my mug of tea because the chronic joint inflammation in my wrists has become so severe tonight. Working continuous twelve-hour shifts on your feet, walking miles on hard concrete surfaces under constant physical tension, takes a heavy, unforgiving toll on the body. My lower back feels like it is on fire, and my knees throb with every single step I take across the floor. The terrifying reality of being a frontline worker is that your physical health is your only currency. If my body fails, my income stops completely. I am sitting here watching my physical frame deteriorate under the strain of this routine, taking maximum doses of painkillers just to mask the symptoms so I can get through the next shift. I feel like a prisoner inside a machine that is slowly breaking down, terrified of the day when the engine finally gives out completely.