I'm broke flat.

Photo by Tara Winstead

Another month.

Another block of time in which stress tries to distresses me into a smaller state of being.

Given the [colorful negative descriptor insert] situations here, there, and everywhere, it's been one more rough month for my mental health.

My original post was going to delve into the hows and whys it's of this mental health roughness– hit you with the TMI of PMDD and other ugliness of my long recovery– I wrote out a whole post then I scrapped it; wrote another post, and scrapped that; deleted the bulk of this post, rewrote it twenty times because:

"I don't write s'good, 'n' less good after what-all I've been through. I ain't good. I ain't– I don't got the it. I just don't. My thinkin' don't got no more ken. Must be... It's them inexcapable facts o'bein' stricken-like. Plus goin' unesteemed by them uppities. It's a why I can't get no renumerate. I'm broke flat. Just no good." they says.