I don't think I can do this anymore

In many ways stopping posting here is the stupidest thing I could do.  That construction, however, assumes that it's a matter of choice.  I don't think it is.  I don't think I can go on.

Before anyone jumps to all the wrong conclusions:
1) I remind you that I opened up by saying that I was talking about posting here.  If say, I'm giving up, and I think I am, you need not worry for my physical safety.
2) This is the sort of thing where stopping doesn't prevent one from starting again.  Unless blogger gets very angry with me, Stealing Commas will still be here in a week or a month or a year.

When I first tried to write this post I found that I was crying too much to see the words I was typing, and my ragged sobbing breathing was shaking me so much I couldn't hit the right keys anyway.

Every time I've tried to write something about why I don't think I can do this anymore, that threatens to start again.

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You know how money is always such a stressful and emotional thing for me?  That doesn't have that problem.  The realization just made me laugh.  Thinking about how I'm financially fucked is actually calming right now.  It's cold and clinical and emotionally distant and it doesn't hurt.

What was over a thousand dollars behind is now less than half that ($476.32), but most of the improvement is a result of money that I should be saving for the next major non-monthly bill, so it's one of those things where even if I had every penny needed to pay my bills right this second, I'd still be having problems in perpetuity because I'd be using money meant for the next bill to pay this one.

And you know what: I don't fucking care.  I'm screwed, there's no hope in sight.  Doesn't bother me in the least.

And ideally speaking I'd really want $1351.69 before July 1st (this includes the four hundred and seventy whatever above) which normally would have me all stressed out because deadlines, and if they're not met then deals become retroactively worse and --

I give no shits.

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So, yesterday I was trying to write a post, and stuff happened, and it went in bad directions, and I stayed up like five hours later than I generally should when I'm one of those people where an hour or two can really fuck me up, and it was about a lot things and I have no idea if I;m making workds right now because I;m holding my eeyes closed to keep myself from crying.

For reasons I wanted to look into what was happening around when I brougje my anckle.  Reslearch and fact checking for the post, basically.

It was a horrible tiume in so many ways.  Trump had just been inaacuyrated, my sister;s children had been taken away, she was dforced from her home, everything wasl failling apart, J had money problems then too.  My computer broke.

i qas so fucking positive about myself and my life..  In the first fifteen days of february I wrote two articles, multiple fiction fragments, a thing about a hypothetical art project I'll never do but it makde me feel good to think about it, and other stuff as well.  (A couple of non-fiction narratives that were utter shit, a meta post that was full of hopr, so on.)

I;d also dome alote of the prep work needed to clean my house,, which I'd been planning on douing for years, and I had so many plans about what I was going to do in the uear to come which, rather unsually for me, were simultaniously realistic and completely within my mental and physical capacity at the time.

then, when I was moving the first bit of stuff grom the room where I;d sorted int a stack of said stuff into the pace where it actually belonged, I slipped on the top step of the basement stairs.  I swear I hit every fucking step on the way down.

When I came to a stop on the basement floor, the pain was absolutely indescriablabe.

Everything changed after that.

It wasn't just that my ankle broke in three places.  It wasn't just being off my hormones for fucking months screwing with my mood, it wasn't just how all of the prepert work I;d done for cleaning instead turned into things that made the mess so much worse when I had to shove everything aside to make paths big enough for crutching around.

It wasn't just how my living space got smaller and smaller as I was unable to do things as simple as pick something up and put it back where it went.

it was that all of that energy and positivity and ability to actually get fucking shit done god damned died.

And I never really realized it, but it's been a year and almost four months now, and I still haven;lt recovered.

Haven't recovered, and don't seem likely to.  Evertthing just gets worse.

So I think I;m just giving the fuck up.  My plan for the rest of today is to grab a bite to eat, go to my bedm curl up, try not to cry, drape some random article of clothing over my eues, shirts and skirts work well, as a makeshift blindfold so the sun bering out wonlt hinder me, and try to fall asleep.  Let darkness take me, make the waking world go fuck off somewhere on itls oen and not god damned bother me.

My plan for tomorrow and after is to survive.  I've always been good a that.