At its worst, I rested. Rest

being the euphemism for spending

every non-working hour prone. Non-billable

time spent-down in bed. My head heavier

and emptier than even the

thoughts in them. Lead and feathers

instead of gray and white matter. 

I resisted the term "ideation." Every morning

I put on sunscreen. Is that an act of a woman who

expects a shortened life? No, that is an act

of a woman who knows she will be here

to see the next morning, desired or not.

Hotlines were out,

since I never made a plan.

Hotlines are for idealizers with

a plan, not for ruminators, like me. 

Winter passed as it is wont to do. That seasonal

change brought the mind shift for which

it is famous. I made a goal and stuck to it,

mostly. No idealizing for 24 hours in a row, then

48, all the way to 72 hours.

Not one thought. No lead, just feathers.

Three days remains the ceiling. Seventy-two hours in

and I allow myself a pause, a moment to

ponder the reasons why not

again and again. (And they are good reasons: My mother

still lives, people need me, I like Gerbera daisies, and

Lake Superior's deep, clean, and cold waters.)

Summer now, with all her tricks and foolery. Sun, heat,

outdoor music, and berries. I know her game. Store this heat,

dance to the reggae, indulge in blueberries and

peaches to overfill, maximum stimulation,

weighted decadence, so

that next winter those become the idealized.