chronic pain
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Yesterday I did a thing that hasn’t been done in years: I forgot to put my medication in my bag when I left the house. Those who are close to me know that I take a ton of pills and I am taking them what seems like all the time. I have five alarms set
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I can’t write this week. I’ve tried several times. Two or three paragraphs in, it falls apart and the message I meant to speak becomes a ball of words with no real significance. I’m too tangled up inside, I think, to be able to present something linear and coherent on the outside. I’m a mess.
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I was doing a bit of reading last night, in an attempt to fill insomnia time with something that makes it seem less like insomnia and more like productivity or entertainment. The book is one I am almost ashamed to be reading, because its pages are covered with philosophies of giving = getting, and those
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I have this problem lately. I mean, I always have one problem or another it seems, but this problem has become foremost in my mind. I don’t know who I am or who to be. That is exactly how I expressed it to my therapist yesterday. I don’t know who I am or who to
Learning To Be Whole 