This is depression. Again.

I can’t sleep. I can’t write. Except, of course, I am writing. And I sleep some. Fits and starts. Fifteen minutes here, two hours there. Awake in-between. Awake so often. I have permanent bags under my eyes, something the self-loathing of the eating disorder loves to latch on to. It’s because I’m fat, of course. …

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Uncomfortable with mucus.

I’m okay with other people’s mucus. In truth, I seek it out. I’m a helper. So, I’m okay with difficult truths, with hard and painful and ugly bits. I’m not good with reciprocity. The facts of existence, I’ll share. The ugly bits underneath, the feelings, not so much. They remain locked up tight. I venture …

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Random thought number something.

I’m reading - still- Bessel van der Klok’s The Body. And listening to an excellent playlist. And standing because I sit too much in general. I’ve heard sitting is the new smoking. Like we’re not all going to die at some point. Random thoughts keep intruding and my attention keeps wandering. Would I have been …

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