one in five

My ego's white blood count is dangerously low and I've been radiating myself with words, words, words both written and spoken and now feel the weaker for it. Skinless. Vulnerable. Generally nauseated. (Or is it nauseous? I can never remember, and right now I'm too spent to suss it out.)

I'm sick of the sound of my own voice, but can't help, still, wanting someone to FIX me. Make it better. Kiss it away. Just hold me while I sleep. My surgeon friends can only look at me with grave, honest eyes and say it sucks. If you want, here are some needles. Try a scalpel. Doctor yourself.

Why must healing make me think of blood? I'm intrigued by the grotesque allure of leeches and therapy.

It helps to read good writing. I dream about running. I'm inspired by great art. And when I need stimulating conversation, I have places to go. These are all blessings. I'm trying to remember that blessings are good things, but they're almost too many to count and I have begun to push them before me like bricks in a wheel barrow. Ridiculous, I know. I really must learn to build stairs. In 2006, I will build stairs.

I call my cousin, Allyson, who is sorry for my downer day, though certainly not for me. She advises that I pick myself up, brush off my skirt and keep going. My dark prognosis swept aside -- four out of five dentists aren't always right -- the sound of her smile gives me back my breath.