This is not a story for the weak, nor is it a pleasant one. But maybe, if enough people put it out into the universe, somehow, someway, this author can find peace in knowing she’s not alone in her battle.
I hate death day. It can’t be just a day. It is a marker on your soul. Its a day you remember death. Not life. Like a birthday. But death. The end. Where was I? What was I doing? How it all went down plays over and over. Even if I watch movies, or tv or go on a walk.
I just got caught down in a rabbit hole of Savannah’s medical records. Reading about someone’s life in medically scripted therapy-ese in little paragraphs is disconcerting and cold and very sad. ‘She did this. She said that.’ Her life of pain in typed out documents and intake paperwork. Her questionnaires of her life answered by typed out sentences, no voice. From 17 on she used prescription drugs. First time with heroin was at 19. Dead at 23. There are 536 pages of her last seven months of life where she…
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