Thursdays are bad.
It's on Thursdays, I do my shot, so it's like I get PMDD every week, which is particularly strong on Thursdays.
This particular Thursday marks one year since my partner passed, and is two days before what would have been our 19th anniversary.
On this particular Thursday, 1,538 beloved members of my family have been murdered since 7 October, and so much of the world doesn't seem to care at all.
On this particular Saturday, I've received my third Facebook restriction for talking about this fact.
On this particular Thursday, I'm tired.
On this particular Thursday, I badly want to rest.
On this particular Thursday, I went and took inventory of the pills I've squirreled away, or rather, I held the amber, plastic bottles in my hand and read their labels; my late father's Oxycodone, and my own amassed fortune of Alprazolam. It was comforting, but
On this particular Thursday, I quickly put them away, lest I forget to resist my own hand.
On this particular Thursday, I'd promised myself I'd do the dishes piling up in the sink, make the bed, and put away the laundry, so that I could get to the rest of the laundry that I desperately need to do, but I've done none of this.
Instead
On this particular Thursday, I'm going back to bed.
Maybe sleep will- at least for a few hours, calm this empty ache that's for so long been eating me like a cancer.
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