After another particularly rough morning surfacing the kind of things requisite to write the NonFicThing – those things being my Type One Diabetes – and a particularly rough few weeks in dealing with said T1D, I've decided that, for my mental state, I need to send to said project to my Project-Purgatory.

I've always considered – and still consider – writing to be my respite, my sanctuary: it is where I can push myself forward and be most myself. However, while I'm not one to shy away from tackling difficult subjects, when that difficult subject is one that is being particularly bastardy in its inexplicable machinations (literally) through my bloodstream consuming, at the moment, almost all of my waking hours – and sleeping ones, as the problems seem to arise there – my respite, my sanctuary of creation, is spent tackling my failure to move a project forward about the current failure of my day-to-day to control my T1D.

While I had plenty of nifty things planned for it, and still hope to maybe one day push it forward, I simply – for the sake of my mental well-being – cannot devote more time to thinking about my omnipresent condition than I already do just to stay alive.