Thin thread and fallen pumpkins

We were in the grocery store, a tiny insignificant pumpkin was carelessly dropped, then dropped again. From out of nowhere, rage lit my hair on fire. I felt the sudden warning signs, saw the quick look of fear from my daughter, caught a glance from a silent clerk. A few words leaked out, dipped in poison, before I could wrestle control, clamp down, breath apologies. My daughter hugs me and says, "Poor mommy", over and over. This is so hard... possessed by these meds, rewired for this destruction, stripped down, exposed. I'm exhausted and edgy, tension's tight, stretched thin as a wire, snap, snap, ping.

Standing here near rock bottom, soothing my daughter's woes, I sense clarity approaching. I've fought for so long, the wrong battle. Again and again, I've blamed "over doing it" for my failings, centered desperately around the fight for rest, "I must do less", blind to the obvious war of wills set for destruction. Stepping now below this seductress surface, I release my grip on the replayed "either...or" (either I will do it all or nothing; success or obvious failure), and surrender to "both...and" (I will both do for others and do for me; I will both perform, look fantastic, smile strength, and I will rest, hide away, hunker down for weeks at a time, take extra long showers, and focus inward, on healing...).

There is an underlying current whispering to me, warning me of possible things to come. There is talk of extending treatment for those with detectable virus in their blood at four weeks, adding another six months to the already promised year. I've dodged this bullet for now, clear at one month, kissed lady luck square on the lips, yet her scent lingers, catching my attention, reminding me of thin thread and fallen pumpkins. I make promises and center my soul. If I can just make these last five months count, really do it right, then maybe it will only be five more months...