My notes inform me I've only written once in any meaningful fashion since November 10th. I nod as I read the date, but it feels simultaneously longer and shorter than I remember... like space between a death. And it is. I mourn and stop writing. I cry, think of the different intensities of heat as our world burns, and count the tiny bit of family I have left. I try not to think of The Doomsday Clock crackling ever towards the midnight hour. I turn off the news in numbness to another tragedy and nod at the clock inching to sleep. And I don't write. As though I'm on vacation, and I forgot postcards.
I started seeing a counselor again. She's kind. She listens like she's paid to do, but I feel she's the sort of soul who always has a clean tissue in her pocket for others. She says she wants my happiness to be at a six or seven for three months before treatment is complete; she offers the lower end when I tell her she's incredibly optimistic.
I spend my Sunday afternoon crying as though I've lost my mom and brother all over again. Brandon cuddles me until the tears slow and we play video games together. I try to pull myself into the present and what's here while there is still stuff to enjoy and people to love. I try to tell myself people want me alive. I guilt myself with their devastation if I should choose otherwise.
Ill again. Not sure how I got sick, but I know my immune system can't be enjoying all the stress. It's not severe... I got lucky. But I have to be careful not to stress or overwork during recovery. I'm not doing the best job. Brandon is sick now, too (and we took precautions).
The one thing I've written is about a woman in a wildfire. She runs through it, like I can't do, even though her hair is aflame. I forgot if she started it or just deals with it. I don't know if she's going to make it through, give up, or fail in the attempt. Her face is soot-marked and sparks tear at her clothes. But she's plucky, this lady. She's got a good chance of making it.
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