Trigger warning: it’s long. Also, it’s possible I’m blunt. I was eleven once upon a time, though it’s far enough in the past to refer to as a lifetime ago. Eleven was an important year in my scheme of things. Much happened. I realized my fat legs were destroying any hope I had for a good life, for one thing. [i] Of lesser import was … Continue reading Sometimes, all you need is a sheet mask and a bath bomb.
I don’t think my hippocampus is back online yet. They get testy, and will sometimes go on strike when the world is stressful and the hits won’t stop coming. I’ve had so many hits, my soul probably looks like a patchwork quilt of impact craters. On the bright side, I didn’t fall back on old and harmful patterns of coping. Bad habits can be broken. … Continue reading Recovery isn’t a race.
Originally posted on From Famine to Feast:
(November 12, 2017) Trigger warning: blunt discussion of eating disorder behaviors. My history with hotel rooms is complicated. They’re great when I’m on vacation with others. I have other hotel stories in my past, however. I don’t like revisiting my past, but I’m learning that if I don’t own it, forgive myself for it, and let it go,… Continue reading Hotel rooms are dangerous places.
I’m not writing much these days. Heat, apathy, and sickness, both my own and familial, have contributed to my sense of futility and ennui. I’m uninterested in almost everything, save for bad news. It’s good when one’s view of a dark and depressing world is confirmed. Bring on the stories about climate change and ugly humans. Show me dead things and societal collapse. Starting Michelle … Continue reading First times, revisited.
From Famine to Feast 