I was a week past deadline on this post. I sat at the keyboard for two days straight while fever swallowed up my hours and I mopped up my nose with a growing pile of tissues, gathering like soggy clouds in my wastebasket. And my fingers hovered over the keys. Backspace gobbled up my words faster than I could get them down and I must have started five or six posts before the letters trailed off and got stringy and anemic like my story was being siphoned off and stolen away. I wanted to blame it …
Dead to Center: Living with Bipolar
On the good days I fear that I’ll get sucked back under, churned wild under the waves, like a spin cycle set to run too long agitating me this way and that. I feared it when I was jubilant and every good thing was like low hanging fruit, so ripe and easy to pluck from the branches, heavy with worth and promise. I fear the fall. Sometimes hope terrifies me. I’m not supposed to say that. It seems contrary to all the good things like faith and promise and trusting God. Here’s the funny thing. I …
A Prayer for the Weary Ones
I spent the morning flat on my back in my bed, pain radiating from hip to shoulder and every movement worsened by the limbs of a small child pressed into my ribs. He had crept in sometime in the early morning hours when the world was still tucked gently under darkness like a warm comforter. I don’t know if it was a nightmare that spooked him but I lifted the blanket like an invitation and he scampered up my side and nestled in. Around 3 am, I heard the moaning, that deep guttural pain that …
