For 17 months, I’ve been on the verge of tears. Before that, really- because it was while I was pregnant, too. The tears sometimes flow, when I can’t hold them any longer. When the river steadily rises until it overflows onto my face, and my family, and the tissues that my husband brings me. If only I knew what I was upset about- then I could stop being so sad. But it’s nothing, really. The truth is that I’m just sad. All the fucking time. No matter if I’m laughing, or kissing, or celebrating- it’s there, like a dark demon stalking my every move. I thought it had to be temporary, because you’re only “post-partum” for so long. I thought if I just took my medicine, it would slowly creep back into the hole from which it came. Or maybe if I just let it out- if I gave in to the tears wholly and unabashedly- then, eventually, they would run out. But none of that has been true. They are an endless river, just waiting to swell and overtake me. There is no end in sight, no matter how old Thaddeus gets. I’ve tried what feels like every solution in the book, and none of them work. The one thing I haven’t given a fighting chance is prayer. I haven’t had the guts, I guess. I’m too scared, I guess. Because I know, deep down, that prayer will break me open further before it mends me. And I simply don’t know how much further I can be torn apart. I want a different solution- a less painful one. I want healing, now. But with each day that passes, it seems that I just can’t close my eyes any longer. One day I’ll face it, I’m sure. Today, though, seems too hard.