I can’t do today.

I’m recovering, but I am still sick.

Ruthie thinks she’s going to get stolen.

Nata’s absence is not quite like knives, but it’s in that range.

It’s too much.

And I am afraid actually that I am so stressed and so rundown that I will go to school and catch the next microbe or six circulating around school and then I will have three more weeks of too much to cope with.

I thought it wouldn’t be so hard today. I thought things were getting easier. They are getting easier. This is easier.

So I’m staying home again. Which is also hard. Because I am afraid of anyone knowing I am sick. I get these little flashes in my head of being beaten. The whole process of writing a formal letter asking for leave and sending it in with a colleague—which is how it is done here—is rife with anxiety. But it’s doable. I can do that. It’s one more trigger, but it’s not the worst possible trigger.

That’s today. It is too much. I thought it wouldn’t be, but it is.

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