Say, I'm here, feeling sluggish and clogged and un-everything, and this is my reality this moment. Dear diary. Dear electronic penpals. Dear other tired moms and Dads:
I'm tired, I'm worried, and I'm scared kind of. I know this, the paralyzing nothing in my hands and toes and mirror. It's worse than the shaking buzzing panic, but it's better than it was when I was half my age and I first felt it. Better because I know I can breathe through it and never lose my center. Better because a tiny child's cry will pierce it in an hour or a few and I'll be a little satellite around her and the tiny new world of her will be my gravity. Better because my husband who has lovely laughter etched around his eyes will come and he will act a monkey fool to make me smile. I have milk to feed my daughter and I can't stuff my holes with drink and pills and we'll all be OK this time. I have a new book, with daisies not demons and people to read it. They leave me notes like little folded greeting cards and they make me know the isolation is in my head where it always was. I know myself better, inside out, and I'm knowing my world and letting it spin. Light after dark, always. Always.