The moment when a limit is reached, when there is nothing ahead but darkness: something comes in to help that is not real.  Another way all this is like madness: a mad person not helped out of his trouble by anything real begins to trust what is not real because it helps him and he needs it because real things continue not to help him. - Lydia Davis, Break it Down







I break out in horrible hives, again and again and again.  This time on my ass, and so finally I get angry (about this too, as if I weren't generally pissed enough) and insist, there is something wrong with me, something that got broken during all those treatments, something that has not returned to normal, something that is not returning to normal, something that is making this how I am now seem to everyone but me that this IS normal and is just me, but it is not.  I remember me.  I do not weigh 30% more than I have for my entire life, I do not trudge through days half awake only to want to chew baseboards all night long, I do not get shingles again and again, I do not bring to me offense and upset as if by force similar to that of an abandoned can of coke on bees.  This is not me.  I am under this.  Waiting for a miracle to give back to me the last two years bodily misspent unto catastrophe.  But that is an unreasonable hope, that a miracle of revision will occur.  What would be a reasonable hope then? For a doctor to listen to a woman?

Yeah right.

I put the rose quartz phallus into the pond and a crystal into the falls with the skimmer box between, making my own sexual healing filtering system. As crazy as that is, it seems less crazy than thinking that thyroid test chicken pox culture whateverwhatever will finally result in "o yes, you're right, you got fuck-ied up by us royally, so sorry, here's a magic new shot/pill to take that won't fuck up your endocrine system even more..."

Yeah right.

I'd be as well off putting my faith in the healing power of pond fish.