It’s like there are no useful thoughts in my head, yet I am acutely aware there is something I’m supposed to do.
I feel like a rat in a toilet bowl scrambling to survive the flush. Chemically dulled. Staring. Curled up. Twitchy. Tics. I want the med work in the hospital to stick. Why can’t it be simple? I’m not feeling hope. I’d like to cry. No tears.
Word of torture: USELESS
I’ve been seeing a grey fuzzy cat that’s not there. I miss Dr. N.
© Michelle Routhieaux 2015