Sick again, on the inside. I can wade through buckets of blood that isn't mine and be fine. I can deal with my own small to medium cuts; if I'm bleeding a great deal I have to turn away. So long as someone else is managing it, I'll still be okay. But bleeding from the inside, even if it's not much, even if I know it's not immediately life threatening or dangerous, still frightens me on such a primal level that all I can do is grab something soft and retreat under the covers and quake. It can't be fear of the unknown, for as many times as I've done this I've pretty much encountered all the reasons why this eternally happens, at least to me. Maybe it's control, or lack of that, the unstoppable red tide that cannot be reasoned with, that comes or goes on its own volition and carries with it a threat of yet another invasive, painful, soul searing test should it not choose to recede. Maybe it's the unreasonable, irrational, niggling belief that why yes, this time certainly, perhaps your insides are simply liquifying, turning to crimson jelly and falling out. And so you gently, oh so gently, curve your hands around yourself, as if by soothing touch you could stop the process and hold yourself together, while everything falls apart.