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I'm caught by the blah.
Trigger warning for readers who expect paragraphs to imply linearity:
Don't try to follow so much as absorb, which son, who is she are not important. The jumps between focus and returns to the sticky places are the dance to read; the state of mind and emotional are evident in the chaos of syntax.
So there was this children's book about a boy who had to stay home from school because he was sick, and he mom went out and told him not to leave his bed.
I have little memory of the in-between, but by the time he was done, there were strings going everywhere, and he could access and control every thing in his room. By pulling strings.
It never showed him leaving his bed to connect the strings. I'm pretty sure there was a sandwich on a plate, but they never showed how he got food into his room in the first place. Ditto the drink.
Judging by my memory of the illustration, his room was at least twice as big as mine. I can literally reach every part of my room without getting out of bed. Conversely, I rarely enter my room without sitting or laying (is it laying or lying? I think it might be lying, was there an easy to remember rule for that?) on my bed.
I'm caught by the blah.
Why? Why doesn't your pancreas make insulin for you? Because my brain doesn't make the right chemicals for me. I think maybe we pay therapists so we can answer them bluntly without a care for their feelings. I love her, I hate it when I shut down her attempts to help. She doesn't know how, and maybe that was the right question, but I'm not willing to turn the evening into a therapy session, and risk hating her. She's not a therapist, she's family and she loves me and it's enough to say that and be that quiet woman who lets me cry or not cry or stew.
When did the blah turn into sobs? Thank god for flaxseed oil, I can see to write through these better quality tears.
I ran away to my room because I promised 15 minutes to my son, and then my other son called, and the show was over and the phone was an excuse to hide. We made plans for Monday. I easily withdrew because he knows what blah is, and that I have physical people if I need contact. Is he okay? Did I really hear him? Since when are there 50 hours available at his restaurant? It's like the virus never happened.
Shopping with Mom was more challenging than usual. Running off to my room with my laptop on 13%, my phone on 1% and my tablet drained, meant tether everything to the all powerful chargers and use FaceTime when maybe phone call would have sufficed. So I'm shopping with my Mom's ceiling constantly in front of what I need to see, and how the heck did I screw up shipping AND billing? Phone on Monday. Good plan.
Sobs, then momentary optic aurae. Is that redundant? When did the wall color become gradient? Oh, that's the screen shadow. No that's not the term, the leftover image from the screen, that reverse color thingie. It's why the gradient keeps moving.
Is there a reason? Ferret shock of the chore variety? Chemicals cause fatigue could explain day sleeping. It's still Saturday - no the top of the hour has passed but it only barely Sunday. Order. Before laundry comes emptying the laundry basket, but that's covered by the Christmas wrapping supplies and the gingerbread mold. But the tree isn't ready for the presents yet.
A list implies order and priority, but just getting All The Things in one place on one side of one pieces of paper, and then circles and lines and crossouts and new ideas and scrapped ideas and .
Sleep. To dream of spiders pulling on their sticky threads.
Trigger warning for readers who expect paragraphs to imply linearity:
Don't try to follow so much as absorb, which son, who is she are not important. The jumps between focus and returns to the sticky places are the dance to read; the state of mind and emotional are evident in the chaos of syntax.
So there was this children's book about a boy who had to stay home from school because he was sick, and he mom went out and told him not to leave his bed.
I have little memory of the in-between, but by the time he was done, there were strings going everywhere, and he could access and control every thing in his room. By pulling strings.
It never showed him leaving his bed to connect the strings. I'm pretty sure there was a sandwich on a plate, but they never showed how he got food into his room in the first place. Ditto the drink.
Judging by my memory of the illustration, his room was at least twice as big as mine. I can literally reach every part of my room without getting out of bed. Conversely, I rarely enter my room without sitting or laying (is it laying or lying? I think it might be lying, was there an easy to remember rule for that?) on my bed.
I'm caught by the blah.
Why? Why doesn't your pancreas make insulin for you? Because my brain doesn't make the right chemicals for me. I think maybe we pay therapists so we can answer them bluntly without a care for their feelings. I love her, I hate it when I shut down her attempts to help. She doesn't know how, and maybe that was the right question, but I'm not willing to turn the evening into a therapy session, and risk hating her. She's not a therapist, she's family and she loves me and it's enough to say that and be that quiet woman who lets me cry or not cry or stew.
When did the blah turn into sobs? Thank god for flaxseed oil, I can see to write through these better quality tears.
I ran away to my room because I promised 15 minutes to my son, and then my other son called, and the show was over and the phone was an excuse to hide. We made plans for Monday. I easily withdrew because he knows what blah is, and that I have physical people if I need contact. Is he okay? Did I really hear him? Since when are there 50 hours available at his restaurant? It's like the virus never happened.
Shopping with Mom was more challenging than usual. Running off to my room with my laptop on 13%, my phone on 1% and my tablet drained, meant tether everything to the all powerful chargers and use FaceTime when maybe phone call would have sufficed. So I'm shopping with my Mom's ceiling constantly in front of what I need to see, and how the heck did I screw up shipping AND billing? Phone on Monday. Good plan.
Sobs, then momentary optic aurae. Is that redundant? When did the wall color become gradient? Oh, that's the screen shadow. No that's not the term, the leftover image from the screen, that reverse color thingie. It's why the gradient keeps moving.
Is there a reason? Ferret shock of the chore variety? Chemicals cause fatigue could explain day sleeping. It's still Saturday - no the top of the hour has passed but it only barely Sunday. Order. Before laundry comes emptying the laundry basket, but that's covered by the Christmas wrapping supplies and the gingerbread mold. But the tree isn't ready for the presents yet.
A list implies order and priority, but just getting All The Things in one place on one side of one pieces of paper, and then circles and lines and crossouts and new ideas and scrapped ideas and .
Sleep. To dream of spiders pulling on their sticky threads.
