when i am ill things tend to go very very wrong.
all of the nice, safe, reinforced flying butresses that hold my life together come crashing down and i find myself standing, or probably swaying with nausea, in a pile of rubble just me, my puffy eyes, and rudolph nose - waiting to be saved.
of course, this makes me want to cry like a small child who needs to be held (aka a romantic comedy heroine) which in turn brings out every iota of self loathing and guilty weakness i have.
the vicious circle of cannibalistic emotions becomes a ferris wheel of death.
it's like wes craven got into my psyche.
and i wish i could say it was the meds, but all i want is someone to brush my hair and a doris day marathon on amc.
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