Standing in the kitchen

Recording this for the record.

What I keep coming back to is how long it took me to get here. Not the medication — the asking. Years of that.

Bureaucracy first, medication second.

I told one person. Not my mother, not work. One person, and only because she asked me a direct question at the right moment.

Nothing has happened yet, which nobody had warned me about. I think I expected to feel something immediately, and instead I made a cup of tea and put a wash on.

À demain.