The Approach.

I can feel the crazy approaching. I'm under a lot of stress. I'm getting a lot of love and support, but the struggle, in both the physical and the mental world, continues. The anxiety and uncertainty (despite my faith) are ringing the dinner bell for the crazy. I'm vulnerable. Conditions are perfect.

I'm forgetting things. Insane things kind of make sense. I play solitaire to both engage and quiet my mind, and the cards almost seem alive--hiding, revealing, plotting. When I doodle, the words and shapes are dark.

Each day lately, I feel like God is throwing hope at me--some financial help, a donation for Oliver, a just-right gift. I try to catch the hope and hold onto it. But much of me is shivering cold and so, so sleepy. And I feel guilty because I should be better, stronger, more supportive, more resourceful.

But the guilt only incapacitates me further. The conditions keep improving for the approach. I'm not the girl who goes down the basement stairs, but I feel like the one who goes into the tent alone and waits for what's coming.