The grimy veil of winter is slipping over my eyes, slowing my movements and dimming my vision. In the periphery, I can faintly see joy packing and taking up residence under the bed to hibernate until spring. I forgot how much I hate winter with its whole being-freezing-all-the-timeness and its driving-carpool-in-the-darkness-ness.
It happens every year as the earth’s orbit shrinky dinks our days. Tiny things like getting gas feel gargantuan, undoable, Herculean. Put me in your fist like a lump of coal and squeeze with all your might. I promise you, I will turn to dust before I shine like a diamond.
All of us are sick of me being sick. Eight weeks in, the mono drags me down – not so much that I am unable to function at all, but enough that I am unable to function effectively. But there is no medical leave from life when you can still drive a car and pack a lunch and prop yourself up on the benches at taekwondo and you only occasionally faint in public.
And so there are things we don’t write about. The afternoon sobbing or the times you yell at the kids and don’t Learn Something Important from your behavior or the school meetings that drain you until you are running on fumes.
This is NaBloPoMo at yeah write, Day 18.