I had my first panic attack when I was twenty-eight, a single mom, living next door to my own. I called her to come over. She sat on the couch. I cried into her lap for an hour.
I did the same thing today when Steve got home from work. The tears came from a place I can’t quite identify. They fell down my cheeks and onto his pants.
I got a sunburn at the lake. As the old skin peeled away, I whispered to the skin underneath, “please be thicker.”
I can’t set boundaries so I burn bridges.
My heart is full to bursting and I am ablaze.
I feel upset in my blood and bones.
I am exhausted and hurt.
I am perpetually and tenaciously fighting for a better headspace.
The time has come for taking care. The way my mother has. The way Steve has. The time has come for cradling my own face in my own open hands, collecting tears in my own lap, while whispering, “rest.”