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Sandra Jean-Pierre | Digital Artist & Writer of Words.

Disabled Chronicles, No.2g

I’ve been done with breakfast for about two hours, but I’m still sitting here. The air in my room is heavy with the scent of tuberose and ylang ylang. The blazing warm light of the candle, shining where I feel I can’t. I’m trying to convince myself of all sorts of things this morning: – that I can get some coloring book work done -that I can get some writing done -that I can enter that intimate space of Study


This pandemic has made me stop talking. Has frozen my thoughts from being born. Has stifled my creativity. Has wrapped me in familiar trauma drenched bandages, made new. It’s covered my eyes. It’s muted the taste on my tongue. This pandemic has washed up and over and through Me diluted me I don’t remember how to exist beyond the hours of the similar days I don’t know… #truestoriesof2020

Disabled Chronicles, No. 69053389432794

I take near scalding showers. If the water don’t make my skin red and prickle – I don’t want or need it in my life. The ‘safe’ setting for most water heaters is B – warm enough to do something but safe enough not to burn children. The one at the house is set between C and D – well past the safety. Any children visiting my house, must use the waters with parental supervision. My Aides have snatched their

Disabled Chronicles, COVID 19 Edition, No. 12

I haven’t spoken in weeks. Outside of the idle prattle with my Aides, I’ve been pretty silent. On social media and in real life. Things have been hard. Realizations sobering. Life has been feeling very short, finite. But today, I need to do some talking, cause this Village… Having to take care of my regular medical needs during this pandemic has been a special kind of hell. Last week was particularly difficult because I suspect the added stress of knowing

Disabled Chronicles, No. 2f

My kidneys decided that the 18 of June would not be a good day for my next Spinraza injection. This, despite my admittedly questionable attempt at hydrating in preparation for it. My urine, though average looking in the sample cup that I zip bagged and cradled in my lap on the way to the lab, carried a protein payload that would choke a horse. For the second time since being aware of and keeping track of protein to creatinine levels,