Another morning of me lying in bed, heavy with exhaustion, hugging a pillow to my chest. I wake up desperate to pee, go to the bathroom, come back, see Phoebe is in my spot.
“Oh, no you don’t,” I say, lifting her up and placing her back in her bed beneath the night stand.
I peek at the clock.
5:00.
Maybe I can fall back asleep for that last hour before my alarm shakes me awake.
Hopeless hoping.
I lie in bed and feel my emotions running through my body. I’m still frustrated from the past few days, irritated over things small and big. A customer service phone call where I tried my best to be kind, but got quite exasperated by the end. The behavior of our fifth graders, the switch that’s been flipped developmentally at this point in the year, the countdown we inevitably start to tick through in our heads. A tough therapy session over the weekend that gave me some realizations I’m grieving, some that I’m angry with.
I’m angry, I’m irritated, everything inside of me feels tight.
And I certainly won’t be able to fall back asleep like this.
I tap my thighs lightly, let the veil of rapid eye movement begin under my lids, start the words she’s told me to say even if it’s not that bad:
“I’m panicking. I’m panicking. I’m panicking.”
My heart rate slows.
“I’m angry. I’m angry. I’m angry.”
My heart softens.
“I’m tired. I’m tired. I’m tired.”
I roll onto my side, hugging the pillow tighter. Maybe in this position I’ll find those last few sweet minutes of sleep.
My stomach grumbles.
It’s no use.
I kick off the comforter, grab my phone and my water, and decide to set a 6-minute timer like Amanda and some others before her and write this slice. I’m left with just enough time to try her one-minute post-writing clean-up.
Writing With Abandon 
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