Depression makes everything pass through me. Or at least, everything that could give me even the remotest form of pleasure or comfort. Like I'm full of holes.
A short poem about wrestling with God.
A short poem about that one word.
What am I doing to my kids? How can I help them understand? I want to be with them. I want to snuggle with them, hold them, comfort them, laugh with them. ...But I can't.
Last March, Spring Break. I can feel it coming as I leave the city limits on my way to a long-planned vacation with the kids. It's a growing sense of trepidation, hovering over me, threatening like a black wave, trembling in place, poised to wreck its ruin...