It’s hard to write when your hands are shaking.
I promised you all, however, to tell the full story. And, unlike some people, I stay true to my word. Even though, as I write this, it feels like rubbing salt into the wound. I am writing through pain,

I will not fight with my husband. I will not fight with my husband. I will sleep in the guest room again.
Because when we try and have a nice evening, when we watch something in bed, together, and then talk or engage, somehow, it turns into a fight. So,

I received a somewhat disturbing email last week. I had just finished an interview for the podcast, and I was feeling good. As I have been lately. Good enough that I sometimes wonder if I’m deluding myself. You’re not supposed to like work. Be happy. Feel

We went to the shore for Easter. The weather was supposed to be nice, and we figured it was worth the hour and a half drive.
Elizabeth, my youngest, could have resurrected Jesus herself with her screams. Then there was Emilia, frustrated with her little sister’s screams, and

I’m sorry for the delay. Things have been…weird around here.
My therapist has thrown out the word ‘manic’. My parents have expressed ‘worry’ and dying on a hill has entered the vernacular.
And the past few nights, when I couldn’t