rems✨ (
requiems) wrote2025-11-02 05:36 am
Entry tags:
I'll next see the sun in March maybe
It's November and for the first time in seventeen years I am not writing. This is not so surprising; after having my confidence knocked at the start of October, then some other unrelated stuff in the middle of the month, and then really struggling after coming down off that adrenaline high and not adapting to seasonal shift nor clock change well and being back on a "PEM for ten days and yet still needing fourteen plus hours in bed after it's eased" swing whilst my body screams at me for having eaten something that should have been onion free but surprise they probably smoked it in onion water so now I'm seven days into my abdomen screaming following any food I eat at all, I probably only worked on words for three days of the entirety of last month.
Writing helps, but I'm simply too unwell. It especially helps for November because it puts the annual demons at bay for a little longer. The seasonal ads have already begun in earnest and every time I see end of year stuff I feel nauseated. It's just... absolutely impossible to avoid and it will only get worse. 2020 and being alone for six months broke me and the limited relationship I had with it left. About the only enjoyment left for it was food and I still can barely eat anything, but now it's ten times worse than gallstones because lmao everything has fucking onions, I can eat like five things without issue maybe, I don't want to watch other people eating food I cannot eat, food just makes me sick looking at it frankly. I don't want gifts, I don't want to add another year to the tally of wasting away to this rotten disease, there's nothing to celebrate. I'll be 34 and entering year ten. It's vile. There's nothing of the world I used to know left, and it'll be six years since I saw friends and last went outside that wasn't for healthcare. I'm fucking done.
Miserableness aside... no choice to continue until my body fully packs in.
Writing helps, but I'm simply too unwell. It especially helps for November because it puts the annual demons at bay for a little longer. The seasonal ads have already begun in earnest and every time I see end of year stuff I feel nauseated. It's just... absolutely impossible to avoid and it will only get worse. 2020 and being alone for six months broke me and the limited relationship I had with it left. About the only enjoyment left for it was food and I still can barely eat anything, but now it's ten times worse than gallstones because lmao everything has fucking onions, I can eat like five things without issue maybe, I don't want to watch other people eating food I cannot eat, food just makes me sick looking at it frankly. I don't want gifts, I don't want to add another year to the tally of wasting away to this rotten disease, there's nothing to celebrate. I'll be 34 and entering year ten. It's vile. There's nothing of the world I used to know left, and it'll be six years since I saw friends and last went outside that wasn't for healthcare. I'm fucking done.
Miserableness aside... no choice to continue until my body fully packs in.