Standing in the kitchen, waiting for my water boil, I can feel the insidious black miasma creeping up my body. By the time it starts sliding over my shoulders, my throat tightens in anticipation of the suffocating fog. It won’t be much longer before the encompassing shroud has completely engulfed my body, my soul. My husband wraps his arms around me in an effort to rescue me. He leaves his talisman of a kiss on my forehead before he leaves for work. But it’s not going to work today, the magic leaves with him as he walks out the door.
After decades of fighting this shape-shifting beast, I am exhausted. As I sit sipping my tea, the woods look inviting. Their leaves dancing in the morning breeze are beckoning to me. It is not their beauty that is enticing, it is the memory of the day when my husband’s magic worked. The day I didn’t walk far enough into the woods, the day he found me moments before it would have been too late. This morning there is time to descend deeper into the the abyss, to simply give up, to end the battle.
But then my cat walks into the room making his odd chirping noises, rubbing his furry body against my legs. Jumping onto my lap, his warmth and his purring begin to tear away at the fabric of despair. As my vision becomes blurry from my tears, my mind wanders to that tiny place in my brain that still holds a sliver of light. I remember a quote about hope from Lady Gaga I recently read: “I said to myself ‘Whatever is left in there, even just one light molecule, you will find it and make it multiply.'”
Perhaps I can try one more time, hold on one more minute, one more hour, one more day. So I turn away from the window and begin again.