Constantly questioning; fighting for an identity, for a relationship -- the quiet glances away, the silent fear of judgement: these wounds bleed into the safest havens of my internal world. Give me a place to go and I would run; spare me the time and the arms and I would curl up in them, regressed and howling, alone and terrified.

It is no longer what I thought it was; we are no longer comfortable with one another -- constant comments, clenched fists, an exhaustion that goes beyond a change in lifestyle. I wonder if we'll survive it; I know we're not happy.

How can I describe these needs? These pressures caving in on me from all around; the loneliness of a life without Spug, without adult human interaction, without the sound of my own voice. I feel my creativity stifled yet bursting to be released at the same time. I feel the inexpressable Joy and the Despair colliding inside me; I understand what it means to walk away, though I cannot make myself let go.

I am treading water in this fierce and broken ocean; the red-stained froth rising around my ears and forcing itself into my nose and down the back of my throat. These tears are no longer my healing; this blood is no longer my salvation. There has got to be more than simply surviving; than simply getting by.

The temptation is to stop fighting and to drown. The temptation is to sink slowly to the bottom, my long hair drifting through the water like seaweed, an eloquent image of silence and death -- a grateful surrendering to the encompassing, comforting darkness.