Como luceros fríos

Sobre el olivar hay un cielo hundido y una lluvia oscura de luceros fríos.

18 March, 2008

I go to the dr. tomorrow. I haven't been able to speak really for a week. My voice is cracked and hoarse. For a few days there I couldn't talk at all. Couldn't even answer my damn phone.

Yeah, Spring break '08 is rockin.

I haven't been using my steroid inhaler because if it's not causing this throat shit, then it's aggravating it horribly. Only, without it my chest is a-tremble every time I inhale, trying immediately to expel the air in my lungs. I'm out of breath. This is unbearable and it's fucking freaking me out. A PTSD discussion site polled its members and an overwhelming amount of them have asthma. Knowing this does not help, though. Not at all.

I am rapidly losing weight. In the past six weeks, I have lost half the weight I gained on medication four years ago. Pants I could not come close to wearing in January are now falling off my ass. This is both good and bad. I am afraid that people will start thinking I have an eating disorder, like they did before when I was thin. But, then, women's bodies are always under scrutiny and people think they can comment on them because we're public property, I guess. So whatever. Eh. We'll see, I guess.

I just can't breathe.

There is no satisfaction in telling off someone you love. None at all. There's only hurt on top of hurt on top of hurt. And the only person it is hurting is me. And that makes it hurt even more. I can't sleep. There just isn't enough melatonin in the world to make me rest easy. I can't even drink myself to sleep.


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