scathed

The more I try to correct, the more I realize the true severity of my current state: the problem becomes increasingly daunting and nothing gets solved, only further realized. How much more can I tolerate before I'm convinced it's too late? I don't know yet. But as if I'd hastily bandaged wounds that required stitches, I now slowly pull back the bloodied layers of cloth to reveal my worsened condition. And I am no more skilled now than I was then. This won't be as easy as just moving on. I won't survive, but at least now I want to know why.