Come Back to Us Barbara Lewis

I am absolutely and completely terrified.

Each night in Richmond, I have stayed up dream cycles past the rest in my house, grinding my teeth and fearing sleep, only to free fall in guilt when 4 am rolls by.

I do not have enough time.

I want to be able to talk to my mother, to tell her how completely frozen I am in life about the thought of disappearing from it for a month.

I want to tell her I'm terrified that I will never make it back.

I want to drive to Lovely next weekend, hug him, and push time back to set gender roles and before driving abilities.

I understood that I would be nervous. I understood that I would be scared.

I did not understand that I would feel every nerve in my body grind to a sit-in. That I would let books gather in the corner, only to jolt awake right before the sun appears, panic set in about gathering deadlines.

But when I sit at the computer, I cannot write. My body will physically not let my fingers touch the keyboard.

Trying to grow up is turning my thoughts younger and younger.

At least, I finally understand what it means to be trapped in my head.

Dammit.