Toxic Shock

I made myself eat, hoping this unexpected surge from my uterus is not a hemorrhage, but I doubt it. Feels like my period, and no wonder I have been more intense than usual; maybe it was being around the fertile women in the bar. I could wail, you know, really cry out like some disabled people used to or still do, on New Mobility's boards, but that is beneath me. Cunningham's work was too difficult for me today, however, given my family history. How did I know the tyranny of Ed Harris and Kidman would feed my own back to me tenfold? With grandeur, which I lack, at least, unpublished. Literary individuals do not speak in a heightened fashion like that for three hours, absorbing and feeding back that degree of emotional pain, but I cannot undo the impact of Michael's work, and can only undress, surprised and set back, amusingly (no pads) bleed in a chuck, and wait to reset, or not, or give up, but I cannot, for whatever reason. I still want to live, despite the horror of my brother's AIDS death, or war crime rape in the Congo, or my abandonment of little Louise. I know what Louise wanted, a literary friendship, and I understood, but could not trust myself, and tersely broke the link, and feel guilty, but she was too young, and I am too hard, in some ways, despite her own isolation and disability. I could not carry the obligation, in the same way I cannot expect any of you who are relatively decent people to help me leave my landlord safely for a sustained period of time. Staying here is killing me, and giving my notice, a death sentence with a small, small window of being free at last, and then state authorities would dump me into an environment comparable to my childhood.  I need that private security Leonard Woolf utilized to keep his wife alive. How he must have loved her.