Dear Wigleaf,

I'm sitting at my basement desk in the dungeon office I've claimed in this house full of people. I'm ignoring unfinished work and unparented children and my unlistened-to husband. I'm too angry to work and parent and listen. I'm too angry every day. It's like I'm grieving the whole world and it's coming out as fury. It's nobody I love's fault, this anger. I'm doing my best to hide it because I know this, and I know it would only hurt these people I love so much to say what I feel, to transfer all this rage onto them for the small annoyances that feel like acts of violence. They're not the violent ones. I know this and I'm trying to stay a good person. It took a very long time to even think of myself as a good person. And now I'm slipping back into a gray area. Everything feels like a scene in a movie. Every facial expression a mask. Every word a lie. Even "I love you" to my daughter on the eve of her birthday. I started Wellbutrin. The doctor says it's a great option as my hormones continue to drop, as I keep eating three healthy meals a day and taking my vitamins, as I grade essays and help my daughter with her homework and take walks and stay alive.

One foot in front of the other, she says. You're doing great.

Hope you're doing great, Wigleaf.

Love,

Hannah