I am here

I am here, I’m always here. There is room for me here. I have capacity inside of myself; I contain multitudes.

I don’t know if I will ever finish a book, let alone publish one.

I am living in the crater of my own life, a hole caused by my own illness, my own actions and behaviour.

I miss my old life.

I am living a dependant life and it is uncomfortably counter cultural.

I am riddled with envy. I constantly think, “that should be me”, almost every day.

I am desperately trying to write 100 words so I can scrape through on my expectations for myself.

I don’t feel whole.

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