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Helpless – SFD
“Lia…” I set my jaw stubbornly and swipe open the news story. Â People shot, politicians, at a baseball practice, government leaders reaching across the aisle to express sympathy, shared calls for unity and humanity. Sir has already warned me twice. Â I’m not to be on devices today. Â “No screen time,” he said this morning, “You can read, you can clean, you can write, you can lie on the couch and sleep, but no screens.” I had already broken the rule twice.
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Humanity
There was another shooting today. It’s just this thing we do here in the United States. You might expect this in, you know, a developing nation, a nation torn by warfare and civil strife, or… the United States. Currently the little news I’ve been given access to (Sir declared no screen time for the majority of the day) is celebrating how both sides of the aisle (Democrats and Republicans) and even the current president have been calling for unity, remembering our shared humanity, etc.
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Tired
It’s 6:30… Â I was doing okay at 6. Â Now I can barely move my limbs. Â It’s too hard to type.
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Empty – SFD
“I tried to think about photography today, I looked for things on our walk.” Devin looks at me. Â “That’s good.” He drags out the second word, questioning, waiting for the rest. “I couldn’t. Â Nothing was… good.” He twists his mouth slightly in sympathy. Â And Sir, standing slightly behind me, brushes my hair back behind my ear.
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Not Good Enough
The voice in my head whispers so softly I don’t know I hear it, I’m not good enough. I push myself to think of something to write about, I’m not good enough. It’s been so long that I can’t begin anymore, before.., I’m not good enough. It’s beginning to feel like there is nothing left inside me, Except… I’m not good enough.
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Have you tried…? Rantiness
I didn’t know what I was going to write about tonight. Â I’m really exhausted. Â The dysphoric state passed and today was… Â functional. Â Not terrible. Â I didn’t have a lot of energy, but I got a few things done and didn’t feel utterly miserable the whole day. Â So… win? Â But my brain is literally exhausted and creativity is a non-starter tonight. Then I just checked Facebook while I was sitting here not writing and a friend, who is a very lovely and well-intentioned person, said something that pisses me off. Â And I KNOW I’ve done it to other friends, so I really shouldn’t be pissed off… it’s almost a natural response,…
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The Edge
My fingers move over the keys, not typing, just moving because… I have to move. My legs are twitching, my eyes are too wide, I can feel it but I can’t stop. The depression has been ice in my veins, lead shot in my limbs, defeat, sloth. But now it has been enervated like Frankenstein’s monster, a lightning storm in my brain that gave it a hideous semblance of life. Now it is restless movement, snapping temper, too much light, too much sound… too much… too much… touch… get my fucking clothes off of me NOW!
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Mistakes – SFD #4
“What were you going to say?” His voice is gentle, one hip is cocked against the counter top, his arms are folded loosely over his chest, all outwardly relaxed, casual. She feels her breath catch in her chest and her eyes widen. “I’m sorry.” He tilts his head slightly. “Oh? Are you apologizing or was the end of that sentence really going to be ‘because I’m too…I’m sorry’?” She feels her skin wash with a flush of heat, followed by a chill. Her heart is thumping wildly, high in her chest. Her tongue flickers over her lips, and her eyes skitter over his chest, unable to find a safe place…
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Herx
I’m having a herx. Doesn’t that sound intriguing? A herx is basically a backlash reaction from toxin-binding treatment. I have to take a drug to bind toxins from the genetic disease that I have. The toxins have been storing in my fat cells for decades and binding to my insulin receptors (thus I can’t actually eat carbohydrates anymore and have to be full keto). When they bind to the insulin receptors, they basically hijack the fat cell and turn it into their own little factory producing a chemical that creates inflammation. That chemical then spills off into the blood, the liver works desperately to filter it out of the blood,…
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Shitty First Drafts #3
The murmuration of traffic beyond the line of trees is almost hypnotic as she traces the grain of the worn wood with her fingers and her eyes. The porch creaks as he crosses the old boards and stands, wordless, behind her. A breath of wind makes the sparse spring leaves around the deck whisper. “You’ll get a splinter.” His voice is soft, warm, curling against her ear. She shrugs. A splinter would be something to feel, at least.