- August 17, 2026
Well, it’s a little after 3 p.m., and I finally managed to get some semblance of sleep.
About three hours.
Not exactly ideal, but considering I spent most of the night tossing and turning, being tortured by my own brain and listening to a possible reincarnation of my mother in cricket form, I’ll take it.
Unfortunately, I genuinely don’t feel well today. And I don’t mean my normal version of not feeling well. This isn’t grief, chronic pain or my body just being its usual pain-in-the-ass self. This feels more like I might actually be getting sick. I have a slight cough, a sore throat and chills. Maybe some of it is from barely sleeping, but I have a feeling it’s more than that.
I did manage to eat and take my meds, though. The basics have been accomplished.
I’m also really glad I decided not to go downtown today. There is absolutely no way I would have been okay making the trip on three hours of sleep while feeling like this. I still have to get my mom’s will filed this week, so hopefully I can get myself downtown in the next few days. We’re coming up on the 30-day mark, and I need to get it done.
Thirty days.
I genuinely cannot wrap my head around that.
It feels like my mom died yesterday. At the same time, these past few weeks have somehow felt like they have lasted six months. Grief has absolutely no concept of time. I can still remember that night with ridiculous clarity, yet somehow we’re approaching an entire month without her.
I don’t understand how both things can be true.
Apparently You’re All Reading My Journal
When I started writing these updates, I didn’t really know what they were going to become. Initially, I think I just needed somewhere to put everything happening inside my head.
But I’ve realized something.
I’m basically writing my private journal publicly.
That’s very unlike me.
I’ve always written, but my journal is mine. Even sharing my poetry can be difficult because there’s vulnerability in putting something you’ve created out into the world. There’s always that little voice asking whether it’s good enough, but there’s another part that’s even harder.
You’re showing people something they normally don’t get to see.
The broken part.
The scared part.
The part that doesn’t have a fucking clue what she’s doing.
Most people are used to seeing the version of me who figures things out. I’m persistent. I’m stubborn. I’m usually the person taking care of everyone else, even when nobody is particularly taking care of me.
Hell, I do a piss-poor job of taking care of myself sometimes.
These posts are different. You’re seeing me on days when getting out of bed feels like an accomplishment. You’re seeing the middle-of-the-night anger, the crying, the frustration, the grief and the ridiculous little moments with Beaker that somehow become enormous emotional events.
And strangely enough, I think I like where this blog is going.
Right now, it’s incredibly personal because that’s where my life is. But I’ve already started branching out and writing about other things that matter to me, and eventually I want this space to become fully integrated into FRDCreations. Art, writing, advocacy, my business, things that piss me off, things I love, random thoughts and whatever else happens to be occupying my brain that day.
Basically, Filly’s Place.
I guess the name is becoming pretty literal.
And Then There’s the Book
I’ve mentioned that I’m pushing publication of my poetry book into next year. Before everything happened with Mom, the book was structured primarily around telling my story through poetry.
But something has changed.
These blog posts have started becoming part of the 2026 section.
I’m realizing that the poems tell one part of the story, but these posts tell another. The poetry captures what I’m feeling internally. These updates capture what life actually looks like around those feelings. Feeding myself. Taking my meds. Cleaning the house. Taking care of Beaker. Trying to work. Going through Mom’s things. Handling paperwork. Lying awake at four in the morning listening to a fucking cricket.
The mundane and the devastating keep existing right next to each other.
And I think that belongs in the book.
I’ve considered going through my old social media posts and pulling pieces from previous years to weave throughout those sections too. Maybe I will. There are probably things I’ve forgotten that would add something to the story.
But part of me doesn’t want to.
2026 feels different.
Maybe the change in format should reflect the change in my life. Maybe this year shouldn’t look like the years that came before it. Maybe the sudden appearance of these raw, dated entries alongside the poetry is exactly what this part of the book needs.
I don’t know yet.
We’ll see where it goes.
For now, I’m going to keep writing these daily posts. Maybe someday I’ll even get brave enough to turn the comments on.
Let’s not get fucking crazy, though.
One vulnerability at a time.
Completely Unrelated, Buy Yourself One of These Damn Things
And because apparently this post is going from grief and artistic vulnerability directly into cleaning-product recommendations, I need to talk about this little contraption.
If you’re disabled, have back problems, struggle with bending or just absolutely hate scrubbing your shower, an electric cleaning brush like the one pictured with this post is worth looking into.
This is not sponsored. Nobody sent it to me. Nobody is paying me. I have absolutely no affiliation with whoever made this thing.
I just really fucking like it.
I don’t have a cleaning person right now. Mine basically fired me because I had to reschedule too many times while dealing with everything happening with Mom and my own health issues. Fair enough, I suppose. So until I find someone new, I’m doing more of the cleaning myself.
And this little wonder got my shower clean in minutes without me having to bend over and scrub the living shit out of everything.
Where has this thing been all my life?
So somehow, on approximately three hours of sleep while possibly coming down with something, I ate, took my meds and cleaned my shower.
I’m calling it.
That’s enough productivity for today.
Now I’m going to lie back down because the lack of sleep has officially given me one of those horrible I’m so tired my head hurts headaches.
But hey.
I did the basics.
I cleaned my shower.
I wrote approximately seventeen blog posts because apparently sleep deprivation turns me into a journalist.
Go me.
I think.
