Crisis, age 53, Paris


11am Somewhere inside I am a nun, also. I am in some dark place internally, the bells chime and they chime as I fall further into the place from which it seems I will never be able to emerge again. I breathe and I am lost. I am so lost, trapped in silent sobs and sounds, my throat aching with that it will not have or express. Those shards sear into my soul and demolish me. I am beset with devils, home to hosts of bacteria multiplying, and less and less of me with each breath. I writhe in agony. I feel the powerlessness of that child as she stole in order to try and feed herself what she thought she lacked and would never get in any other way. I’m still her. She’s still me. I am sick with grief and edibles fed to me in haste in order to shut up my wailing. I am sick with what was stuffed into me. In ordinary time, I am lost. In god’s time, I am found. In ordinary time, I dream it all away, hoping that enough time will pass to make it better, to let me be loved.