Calluna Vulgaris Lives!

Hello? Hello? Is this thing on? Today, I turn around in my recovery. Today, I conjure Calluna, and lick her fur. All of the world that knew her is dead and gone, and all of them should stay that way...but it's her voice that I want to catch in a clamshell and reclaim anyway. It's mine after all. Just getting logged into the account took 30 minutes, but longer than that, coming back to the warm gun took 10 years. Part of this recovery is 'group', which asks of me some steady and consistent writing (which is the hardest bullshit part of recovery.) None of the other blocked persons in the room are having to paint 3 paintings a day, or built three pots, or dance three songs; they write. Just like me. I thought 'group' would introduce me to some insightful active introspective people. Nope. Blocked retards like me. Damaged and hideous and their voices crack like prepube boys and they are downright miserable people. At least one sociciopath and one psychopath for sure, and imagine how crushed I was to discover this. That's group for ya: Looser City. In the car this morning, I started talking to myself in rambling sentences like I do in deep heartbreak- heartbreak that proceeds Calluna. Back when Calluna was Jane with a diary and dozens of my mothers shoe boxes full of letters. Ugh. That girl. 'Just write, Bitch.' The voice in the car says as I open the door to step out. Now, I'm logged in, and hoping that I can stop my hiding in the dishes that sit too deep in the sink... But...but..maybe Calluna isn't even Calluna even more. Maybe at the end of this, I'll just find Edward Norton curled up in a fetal position rocking back and forth with soft moans.