Skilling through the writer’s block

The smell of ammonia and lavender in my nose.
The sting of the heat cream on my skin.
The letters that spell motivational words on my arm.

The healthy part of my mind is terrified. It screams that I’m not a bad person, not a monster, not a failure just because I’ve made a mistake. It’s trying to tell me that I couldn’t have done anything else and that nothing gets better by throwing away everything I’ve struggled to achieve.

The ill part roars back how I made a deal with myself a long time ago: That this particular situation would automatically have to result in a certain amount of deep cuts in a space I’ve kept free especially for this occasion. It doesn’t allow the healthy part to trivialize my “reasons”.

I take some more of my herbal sedatives.
I nearly crush the porcupine ball in my hand.
I read what my therapist wrote on a yellow sheet of paper.
I smell. I try to feel. I try to think.
I also try to write. I fail, the words don’t flow as they usually do and they certainly don’t make sense.


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