Hello.

Sometimes I worry that I’ll run out of things to say and then I’ll be here with a promise I’m unable to keep and words that are hiding away, refusing to be found.

I am leaning against two pillows while on the guest bed, listening to the water rush down from the roof and onto the ground, which is a mixture of old snow and mud. There are ten minutes before therapy and I have a tea placed precariously on a paperback version of Bell Hooks’s, All About Love. I should make the effort to move it to a sturdier surface, but that would require me to shuffle about and lean forward, disrupting the aesthetic of this moment. I stay put.

Update: the closet in my office (and guest room) has been redone since my last email. I added twinkle lights and floor cushion and curtains and am beyond pleased with the outcome, which is no different to something 7-year-old Chloe would have created, and I like to think that the two of us could squeeze in behind the curtain and under the lights, with our books in hand and stories in mind.

The piece that I am reading to you today is something I wrote after a particularly difficult day, and after talking with my psychiatrist earlier, it appears we need to do quite a bit more adjusting of medications. I am both eager for the promise of feeling more myself, and terrified of what it will take to get there.

See you next week.

With love,
Chloe