A Letter To Myself

I haven't written in five days and I have deeply regretted that. This month has been one of the most overwhelming that I can remember in a very long time. I spent the first week and a half feeling physically miserable, but functional. I made decisions, plodded through homework-- mine and my children's-- and skimmed the top of the rest of my responsibilities. Things started falling apart and I started making mistakes that shocked me. I forgot dates and commitments and promises of helping others. Everyone was so forgiving. After all, those kinds of faux-pas are truly unlike me.


When I was finally able to breathe freely, I took in a deep breath of life and found it to be polluted and contaminated. It didn't taste as sweet. Politics had dirtied it a great deal. Friends, family, neighbors, and my own children were now tainted. I find myself holding my breath, this time in hope. But my lungs are quickly depleting and my joy at watching the surviving middle class stand-up for themselves does not have the buoying effect it needs. I am weighed down by the pollution that is trapped inside my mind and heart. It all makes me want to cry.


But crying is a luxury when you find you've been removed from the river and are now left in the too harsh sun. That's what it felt like when fevers overtook me for the last week. Strong medication struggled to keep my fever below 104. I doubt it's success in the dark nights. I slept, as often as possible, to forget my fever and the political contamination and the sad excuses of the early parts of the month.


I am no longer asleep. I am awake. Still concerned for family and friends. Worried about how the fallout will affect my children's future. But awake and functional again. I am also further behind than I was three weeks ago and very eager to get back on track. There are many things that must be done before I can fully return to writing daily. I hope you understand.