Today C and I watched the season finale of Last Week Tonight with John Oliver. The end of it felt cathartic--as soon as I registered that he was about to blow up the giant 2020 behind him, my fist went into the air. And then, curious, I went back and watched the March 15th episode, the first after things really started to pick up speed with the pandemic. From March til now feels like a terrible run-on sentence. So much of it defies linear understanding...so much has happened. It was interesting, and a little creepy, to go back and view it from November's perspective. I can recall the surreal feeling of leaving work on the 13th, not knowing when we would return. The giddiness at the prospect of working from home more than once a week. All of the conversations with others that trailed off at the end because no one knew what was about to happen. Numbers are worse than they've ever been. Many of us are not going to see family for the upcoming holiday(s). I know a lot of people aren

Writing this book has been like finding a vein and following it until it breaks off into two, and then choosing one to follow which then branches into fours, and I never pick the first and go with the third, which leads me into another roundabout of choices. Vein after vein after vein. A memory bleeds into another and another until all I can truly get down is the color, the weather maybe. When I hit this point, I reach out to two writer friends seeking advice. One suggests stepping away, taking a break. The other says write through it. Both are right, but I get a good chuckle out of their opposing views. I do step away, and I do return to go through it. There is immense freedom in believing in the work you are doing--motivation is more at the ready, little seems forced. That said, belief in the work adds to the risk. I want so much for what I believe in. I trust myself which is downright frightening(and again, freeing). Fear is not going to leave so I might as well set an extra place

Yesterday another moment of body's betrayal. Or, rather, my body doing what it does on its own, faults and all. A migraine I could feel in my fingertips, eyelashes, down every button of my spine. Many hours lost to sleep but the ones that weren't were spent in that familiar agony of wanting nothing to touch me. I want to be untouched but not alone. Even a dog barking outside sends tiny fractures through every pane of me. When I shuffle to a different room I do so with head leading me. No talking because my words slur. All these years in and it's still embarassing. The beast stuck around today and I relented, taking my last pill. I was hoping to wait it out without intervention, but couldn't anymore. Too tired. So it goes with health care and prescribed things--I'm only allowed so many solutions per month, and I try not to run out but usually do. It's a tale that many of us with chronic conditions can tell. No other way to say it: it sucks. But, I did get reli