It’s the worst winter of your life—and you’ve known some pretty rotten winters.
You’ve hardly slept for months, your hands and feet tingle like stars, and you can’t eat for the boulder of fear that sits in your esophagus. You lie in bed one night in early January, awake, again.
In the midst of this worst of winters, you have just lived your three worst days ever. On Thursday, you cried uncle and took your first antidepressant. On Friday, you got a letter from your publisher informing you that they were pulling your book out of print. On Saturday, you spent several hours in Urgent Care because your breasts were streaked with the angry red of an infection, your third since your twins were born.
This has been your own personal Triduum, right here on the tail-end of Christmas, that season of light and stars and gifts.
The tingling spreads up your legs as you lie awake in bed. It flicks its fiery tongues into your torso, your arms, your face, your scalp.