1. I called the doctor every day for three weeks just to ensure that I was doing okay. I left voicemails that grew slowly more agitated, less soft and sweet, asking for my results, for my dose, hoping for some change, for some answers, and still knowing I'll receive silence. I've been through this before.
2. I hold the small bottle and cringe as the smell of the alcohol wipes sting the inside of my nose and the needle point glances soft against my skin. I don't want to press, I don't want to push. I've done it before and I know it hurts and it will ache for days after, but it will get better. I know it gets better. I've been through this before.
3. I glance at the pills on my dresser next to my alarm clock for the third time this morning and tell myself that I will take them before I'm out the door. I know I need to. I know it will help. but the effort feels immense and my body is loose from sleep and I can't seem to go the short distance and open it all up. I leave that morning stomach empty, bottle still ******* tight. I do this every day. I've been through this before, too.
I am stuffed full of things to do and things to say, but accomplishing something is not on the agenda today. I don't know when it will be. I don't know that I want it to be.