Welcome to my name is erica. A record of life remade through illness, intuition, and art. I invite you to subscribe to receive reflections from the desert, sent with care.
I've only ever drawn self-portraits.
Every iteration is truly false.
I woke up with my skin on fire, body heavy, muscles weak. Neurological.
I'm the canary in the mine, every damn time.
Which toxin is it this time?
But I'm better equipped to fight through these things now. Better able to see, "this won't last forever."
Dora slept on my lap the whole car ride home. That's true happiness. Now she mean mugs me from the foot of the bed because full-belly-version of her is ready for a walk.
"Soon, soon my love."
I bought flour from Italy to avoid the bromine and glyphosate. The United States of chemical soups. The reasons I can't eat honey.
Determined to make my own cinnamon rolls. Determined to make my own maple bars. I see online recipes for stove-top bakers like myself. Can't be that hard.
Famous last words.
I really hate saying "okay." It's a placeholder for feelings without words.
I think tomorrow I'll work from an epsom salt bath tub, mid-day. Why not.
Healing is hard because it's not linear change. It's spaghetti-graph. And getting used to better makes dealing with the old status quo harder.
I want to go back to eating cheeseburgers and donuts every day, like March and April. Instead, I'm looking at more chicken and squash and low-histamine activities.
I had convinced myself I liked chicken at some point. Cursed cardboard.
Ordered a Mitome Test to read my mitochondria. Call it a splurge, it's cheaper than medical reports.
Have more drawings to finish, but before that I'm due a barefoot walk through my yard.