05 october 2024
I thought if I did "everything right" I'd have my face back by now. That's not how chronic illnesses work, unfortunately. I estimate that I have until Janurary to "fix things" before my respite from poverty ends.
I'm disapointed that I haven't been able to heal more while I've been allowed to live rent-free. I'm worried that the will to survive that sustained me won't come back so easily if I have to live like that again. Things like dumpster diving, stealing food, busking, etc are all off the able now. Maybe I can simply turn green and figure out how to photosynthesize.
I have a ticket to the moon in my pocket that I may never get to use. I have an unedited manuscript I can turn into something if I can stop being so damn distracted by my skin. I have a tube of rick simpson oil that make me sleep for 48 hours if I want. This is either a small blip before the mother of all short squeezes, or the dead cat bounce before I take up fulltime residence in a local dumpster. Honestly either is fine. Dumpsters have bread and the certainty of hopeless despair beats the wild ride of constanly almost making it but always failing.