Sunday 15 March 2020

Living through something disruptive

For a week now I've been mainly going outside after the hours of 8pm. Even so, this Saturday night, I chose to skip a sojourn around my suburb. I needed the avoidance of stressful touching of door handles, lift buttons and other such surfaces. I'm sure I'll resume tomorrow.

So far, as far as I know, I don't have the coronavirus, but a part of me expects to contract it despite the precautions I'm taking.

I dived deep into a heady tale yesterday, the vividly drawn Eastern European setting disturbing me. I hope I sleep better this morning. For morning is a better descriptor than night.

Dua Lipa plays on Channel V and it's slightly disconcerting, possibly too heteronormative.

I maintain my innocence, and my immersion in the world of post-traumatic growth.

A book by Sophie Hardcastle. Article in The Guardian. A downloaded chapter. An exquisite fear of another woman's hellscape. A decision to disengage.

The offensive doctor brought something to my attention (before I left his office forever). I wanted to bring my whole self along to the next man's office. Let him be discomforted. Let me bring all of my tricky, hard-won knowledge. Let the full canopy of my well-tended psyche wrench his certainty far from where he'd hoped. 

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