Page 32 of His Atonement
"This is Francis Mae Masters and today is August 19th. It's four in the afternoon on day three of what I recognize to be severe anxiety, depression, and a little mania." I sigh and roll to my side. "I've been in Ashland for about ten days now and as you know from my previous posts, things were going well. Minimal physical symptoms until about five days ago, only small bouts of OCD or anxiety, all of which smoking helped a great deal, but when I had an increase in muscle activity, started to have more spasms that led to issues with my coordination, I spiraled."
I was in the middle of taking pictures of the horses, the big beautiful beasts running through the pasture when I started jerking so much that I actually lost the grip on my camera and dropped it.
I broke my fucking lens and because I got so frustrated things went downhill fast.
"Thursday afternoon, I raged out. I smashed my broken lens to pieces then used an ax I found in the crawl space on the only bookshelf in my cabin, turned it into kindling and just when I took a good swing on the couch cushions, my whole body went rigid and I fell." I point to the scrape on my forehead, and push my hair back to show how big the lump is. "Once I loosened up, I had a panic attack that caused the most severe case of chorea I've had to date, then I just laid on the floor in my living room and cried. Friday was no better. I didn't get out of bed except to pee, ignored all of Allie's calls, as well as the few times someone came all the way out here. I sent my cousin one text yesterday that said I was super sick—stomach bug—and didn't want to pass it to anyone else, so I was going to ride it out alone."
Always alone.
Alone.
Alone.
Alone.
"Last night I got pretty manic, deep-cleaned the cabin three times, packed and unpacked my moving boxes at least three times, totally reorganized the darkroom and set it up the way I want it when my equipment comes, but once I came down I convinced myself it was pointless because I'm going to end up dead before it gets here and—" My throat gets a little tight. "I started cutting myself again. I haven't felt like doing that in years, but I was so upset, so angry and sad, so goddamn anxious I just wanted it to stop, wanted some kind of relief that the weed wasn't providing at the time." I smirk into the screen. "At least it means I took a bath."
Relief.
Relief.
Relief.
A knock on the front door makes me cringe, but I ignore it and keep going.
"I didn't cut for too long, just while I was in the tub, and mostly just retraced old scars. When I woke up today I was just super depressed. Sad. My body is ok despite not sleeping much, just very fatigued and low energy. I feel a lot of remorse this afternoon, guilt over cutting again, guilt over isolating myself from the girls and Allie. I miss Granny. I still feel really weird about Zan."
Zan.
Zan.
Zan.
Which is an understatement for sure.
I don't actually know how I feel about him at all.
Other than being ridiculously attracted to him, inappropriately turned on by our game, and sort of like he's someone I could have fallen for if things were different.
After I cut up his clothes, Zan snuck into my cabin and hid dildos all over the place.
Under my pillows.
In my closets.
He stuck them to every flat surface he could find and even went as far as to glue one to the inside of the lid of my toilet so when I opened it there was a two foot long dick that popped out and splashed me with toilet water. Ok, so two-feet-long might be an exaggeration, but it was big and managed to splash me.
Zan definitely hated it when Imaybeleft a thank you note under his pillow, probably one that was written on the back of a rather provocative photo I took with my phone just before I used one of hisgifts.
Nothing was showing except my bare legs and feet because the rainbow colored dildo was positioned to hide the goods.
I didn't see him for just over twenty-four hours after that.
I retaliated to him sprinkling dildos like fairy dust by filling his shampoo bottle with hot pink, very permanent hair dye, his conditioner—I’ll pretend I did not find it adorable that he conditions—with anal lube, and replaced his body wash with something that smells like burnt garbage.
Zan made me pay by following me around and sitting ridiculously close to me all fucking day, forced me to smell that horrible scent that hardly muted his normal delicious one, and even though he smelled like shit, I was still super turned on the entire time. Because apparently it doesn't matter what Zan smells like, I still want to ride him like a pony.
And he looks really fucking good with pink hair.
