![]() In Pain Woman Takes Your Keys, Sonya Huber writes about the rheumatoid arthritis that began plaguing her with near-constant pain in her thirties. Still putting off emails, I tug one sheet of paper from the stack I just made and scrawl idly in the margin: “The particular latitude of your mind invites many storms.” ![]() The flakes blow loosely over the crust of what’s already fallen. The one I’m caught in is marked by paralyzed muscles, quickened breathing, racing thoughts: Think, Annie, think, what a mess you are in, how on earth will you get yourself out this time. I’ve been trying to hate my mental illness less, to be less divided, to not view my anxiety as a scrim separating me from myself, from the life I could be living. I pull the screaming kettle off the range, fill the teapot, and carry it to my desk, where I idly shuffle some papers instead of starting work. I set about making tea, gently assessing my own internal strata. Only sometimes will the ice hold my weight. ![]() Any trip across the lawn - from door to mailbox, from mailbox to car - is likely to be punctuated by falling. Ice-powder-ice-powder-ice: they lie according to the usual pattern of Iowa winters, when the days between storms bring just enough sun to melt the top layers, and the nights refreeze everything into a temperamental crust. The strata of five snowfalls cover the ground as I climb out of bed one February morning. ![]()
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