How we spend our words is how we spend our life. What happens when you find yourself speaking a language the people you're closest to don't understand? Is it possible to bridge the unbridgeable gap?
I try to talk about what it's like to have a husband who is recovering from cancer, and is still recovering, with complications that could possibly be fatal. One of my greatest challenges as a writer has always been describing the experience of mental illness from the inside—I consistently, in my work, dare myself to tell the truth about what, for example, psychosis is like. But now the new challenge is to talk about the tightrope walk of spending my days *without* adhering myself to C every single moment of every single day. I worry that I'll look back at the time I spent doing other things, should we be living on borrowed time. And most of all, I lack the words to say how much he means to me. I wrote him a sonnet for Valentine's Day. I would write him a sonnet every day if it meant he could know—really know—how much I love him.
I try to talk about what it's like to have a husband who is recovering from cancer, and is still recovering, with complications that could possibly be fatal. One of my greatest challenges as a writer has always been describing the experience of mental illness from the inside—I consistently, in my work, dare myself to tell the truth about what, for example, psychosis is like. But now the new challenge is to talk about the tightrope walk of spending my days *without* adhering myself to C every single moment of every single day. I worry that I'll look back at the time I spent doing other things, should we be living on borrowed time. And most of all, I lack the words to say how much he means to me. I wrote him a sonnet for Valentine's Day. I would write him a sonnet every day if it meant he could know—really know—how much I love him.