Mood:

Photo copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved.

Figuratively, and literally.

The sun is shining, and we have thunder, lightning, and pouring rain.

There is at least as powerful a storm in my joints and nerve endings, in every major muscle group, in my head now wracked again by a migraine. Again, as in every few days. 

One of these days, I'm going to need to talk about some things here. A lot of things, actually. About chronic illness and chronic pain, about the depression that accompanies them, about the PTSD that accompanies a lifetime marked by abuse of several varieties. About the casual abuse inflicted by "allies" upon people who they, deep down, consider marginal, dispensable, disposable; people who they, deep down, believe should be grateful for their attentions and "allyship" and adjacence — and eventual appropriation and erasure. About boundaries, and the repercussions for violating them, about how we "marginal" people are #notyourmule. About gods and masters and heroes and role models, and how celebrity culture and starfucking and cult-like worship and demands for deference become yet one more way to shower abuse and authoritarianism and control and, yes, ownership upon those they, deep down, regard as marginal.

Every one of those is in the works, has been for a long time. But every day, from before I get up at five or six A.M. until I fall into an exhausted and unrestful sleep, usually sometime around midnight, I do battle every moment with pain and fatigue and recalcitrant brain chemistry and, now, a tidal wave of memory and history that, for the past several months, has threatened to swamp my very existence. I have talked about this in general terms, necessarily oblique, and it will remain that way; no one owns the right to my discussion of it. But when I say "survival-level shit," I mean exactly that, and if some refuse to understand that, well, I can't help you. 

So, someday, I'll be able to balance the fatigue and the pain of too many varieties and the murderous migraines and my never-ending, never-shortening to-do list, and I'll finish the 20 or 30 drafts that are in various stages of completion. It'll have to wait, too, until I'm not scrambling so constantly to make sales, however few and far between, because we have to keep food on the table, and so that comes first. 

And it will not be this night, when the blinding pain makes me want to crawl out of my skull entirely, when it makes me long for one bolt of lightning to numb it, and another to throw to make a point for those who desperately need an acquaintance with it.

There will come a time when I have that second bolt.

All content, including photos and text, are copyright Aji, 2015; all rights reserved. Nothing herein may used or reproduced in any form without the express written permission of the owner.