"It Starts Again" by Catherine A.G. Bayly

You don't want to eat this food.  You're hungry.  But it hurts to move your jaw.  The muscles are too tense.  You'll save it for a better time.

You open the cabinet where you keep plastic containers.  They are disorganized.  There are many of them.  A few tumble out as you try to find a lid that fits.  Your skin crawls as you bend to so slowly pick them up.  You are sure you'll lose your mind.

The radio is on.  Despite the fact that the classical music is soft and fluid, the sound of bows on violins makes you want to jump out of your body.  You are on the brink.

You're half awake and as much coffee in.  Your daughter wants you to wear a headband.  She doesn't understand.  She wont.  She can't give up as she climbs over you like a jungle gym.  To clap the headband over your ears.  Your head pounds, the blood churns and pumps.  Why can't she hear it.  You must wash this off.

Brush your hair.  Hit a tangle.  Yank.  Slam your brush back into the thatch of wet hair.  Hurts.  Feels good.  Tangle.  Spinning out of control.

Your child brushes against you as you make pancakes for lunch.  Sticky syrup hands.  Pins and needles shoot up your thigh from the point of contact.  Into your torso.  You can hear in your brain--a siren, whirring.  You need it to stop.

You're suddenly angry.  The kids are making noise.  Your husband has just gotten home.  He wants a kiss.  You want that too, but the feeling of his scruff on your face feels like infinity razors.  You walk away.  You step on a useless wind-up toy.

You kick the wall.  You feel better.  The wall is dented.  You know you'll be ashamed when you patch it up, come morning.  But, for a split second, your brain stops.

It starts again.