Storyteller's Journey

I’ve been in physical therapy since early October, and while I’ve made progress, I’m still out of work.

I’ve been caught in the rough waters of waiting for short-term disability to come through while still needing to pay bills, attend weekly PT sessions, and multiple doctor’s appointments. On top of that, I was recently diagnosed with sleep apnea, which has been incredibly frustrating. (I use to control this by side-sleeping but it no longer works for me)

I’m reluctant to post this, but I really need financial help. I haven’t been paid in six weeks, and with a high-deductible insurance plan, I’m literally paying hundreds of dollars in medical bills every couple of weeks. The CPAP machine alone costs is insane. Friends give me rides when they can, but I often have to rely on Uber to get to appointments. I’m burning through money quickly, and before I hit an empty well, I thought I’d put my hat out.

I always thought I was prepared for disaster, but after six weeks, it’s become a very scary reality that we’re all just one step away from catastrophe in our current healthcare system.

If I had family I could ask for help, I would, but my sister lives paycheck to paycheck.

If you’re able to spare something,

If you can’t, no worries. Maybe you could reblog this instead.

Thank you,

Kristen

Ko-Fi

Cash App:

$KristenNIN

Paypal:

paypal.me/kristen999213

Reluctantly tagging people for exposure.

I love that Americans are known for complimenting strangers. I love that we fry everything, and that we do it well. I love 12-foot-high plastic Halloween skeletons in people’s yards and tacky Christmas lights that stay up too long. I love that we are an unabashedly goofy people.

I love bluegrass music. I love stepping. I love that there are always folklorico dancers in my town’s Mardi Gras parade. I love that my town has a Mardi Gras parade, even though most people here aren’t Catholic or French and didn’t grow up with any kind of Carnivale tradition. I love that if "Livin On A Prayer" comes on a pizzeria, at least one person at each table won't be able to stop themselves from singing along. I love that the middle school gym shakes to the rafters when families cheer for THEIR baby finishing eighth grade and that they bring balloons and bouquets and flower garlands to celebrate.

I love the 80 year old couple at our local No Kings protest. I love all the little kids there with their families, too. I love the brass band that always shows up at protests here and plays old union songs and gospel music. I cry like a damn baby every time I hear “Lift Ev’ry Voice and Sing.”

On one of these days, he finds a farmhouse of a very jittery couple who agree to let him sleep in the barn, with the conditions that he sleeps in the barn loft and if he's found, they disavow all knowledge that he was there. He agrees, because he's exhausted and will sleep in a hay pile if he has to. My grandpa manages to fit all six foot three inches of himself into a feed trough stored upstairs and tries to get some sleep.

However, right when he's half-snoozing, he hears motors outside and sure enough, here are some very angry officers of mixed Nazi and Vichy make confronting the couple saying someone up the road spotted an American soldier walking this way. They wouldn't know anything about that, would they? No, of course not.

All the while, my grandpa—now trying to figure out how to either escape the barn unseen or how to fight off six? seven? eight? people at once—freezes up and waits for the inevitable. While he does, a HUGE spider crawls next to his head and onto the loft railing. For one second, he thinks about swatting it away, but that would risk him being seen and killed.

So, instead, he lays there and waits to either fight to the death or get executed in a feed trough. And while he lays there, the spider starts making a huge web on the railing. My grandpa's transfixed by this thing. He watches her go around and around, building a solid web before plopping herself off to one side and waiting for breakfast. At the same time, the officers finally go into the barn.

My grandpa can hear them searching around, turning over crates and checking animal pens. Then, he hears one say to check the loft.

And then another say, "Don't bother. Look at the spiderwebs up there. No one's been there in a while."

And they leave.

Because my grandpa didn't swat the spider away and let her build her web, the officers thought no one was there and left him alone. They drive off and my grandpa immediately thanks the farmer couple and hauls ass out of there as soon as he can.

There's such recency bias in fandom. As an author you post something, get a few reactions, and then it goes off into the bin. As a reader you check the tags, see what's new, and move on. But a lot of old stuff is really good. It's just sitting there, gathering dust, waiting for someone to take a peek.

So go on. Treat yourself.

I see a lot of people (often on anon) that just expect consistent content from artists/writers/bloggers/etc. It’s okay to take a break. It’s okay to stop all together.

If you stop because you have to focus on school, I support you. If you stop because you are too exhausted from work to write, I support you. If you stop because you need to focus on your mental health, I support you. If you stop because you have writers block, I support you. If you stop because you just don’t get joy from writing anymore, I support you.

A good relationship with reality

A socially acceptable search history