Je suis fatigue.

My time has never been so impacted. This level of exhaustion has never been sustained for such a long stretch of time. Teaching two classes at two different campuses, involvement in a research fellowship group, working in the writing center, writing and writing and writing.... The revisions mount and I will finish in July, though I will walk in June. I already bought my silly velvet robe as a first step in a series of performative closures.

Many have asked me what I want for graduation. I want to go away for a few days and sleep. Sleep, Kyle, and a bottle of Perrier-Jouet and I am set.

My jaw has been so tight I finally succumbed to Augustin's advice and took one of his Xanex (I am waiting for it to kick in while I write this, and have just started to feel a slight ease to the muscles in my shoulders). I thought dying my hair purple would take some of the edge off. Not really. So, I scheduled massages for K and I on Sunday, after we go to the MOCA, but I couldn't wait that long, so out came Augustin's well-placed pill.

I had a panic attack last Monday. Full blown. I couldn't stop crying, even when I went to teach at RCC. Seriously--it was bad and I let my students go early. Kyle drove out after I taught and brought me a movie and some popcorn, rubbed my feet, and put me to bed. He gets it. No hovering, no pandering, just quiet, unfussy support.

I am not complaining. No. What I do pleases me. But, at times, the crunch and drag of time, the incessant clack of keys, and the neurotic phone calls needing assurance that I'm not in the wrong field is as soul-sucking as the work itself is sustaining.