hot honey + sophisticated squatters + nostalgia

fear is *super* close to bravery

Let me say, off the rip, that I’m fine. But the amount of being still that I’m doing right now (and the last 48 hours) is a lot.

I’m in warm stretchy houseclothes. Glad my (artificial) Christmas tree is still up, because it’s cheerful (judge me if you will; I won’t start caring until Palm Sunday). Here it is, the first month of my On The Move year, and I am on the couch, feet up, assisting my antibiotics and painkillers to cruise efficiently through my body by not moving about unless I have to. We all know meds like a good horizontal situation. Swimming about in bloodstreams doing battle with the nefarious takes enough energy without having to paddle upward like salmon heading home.

I knew something was off. But what I did was fall into an old habit (that the T in PTSD encourages) of being stoic. My pain/discomfort/worry was not worthy of mentioning — let alone managing. As a teenager, I did this as a matter of course.

Hero or villain: Why do you keep touching your temple like that? Does…