My anxiety is not controlled. Or, it’s controlled in the way that my father has modeled for me, or the way that my particular type of sobriety has designed for me. I need everything to be in its right place, I need everything to work as expected, and for things to happen on time, in order to function. Or barely function. Or whatever it is I am doing.

After a better night’s sleep, some anti-inflammatories, and a visit to the urgent care, I am in a much better place. I am no longer cataloging all of the calamities that a lame leg might mean for me. I’m no longer wondering who will wash the floors exactly the way I want them washed, if I can’t do it. I’m no longer sitting in the ever-constant trauma of my cancer diagnosis, feeling helpless and impotent. I’m not doing the math in my head of what a skipped paycheck could mean.

Nothing’s fractured. And coincidentally, Adriene has decreed this week to be a week of rest, so the yoga is soft, restorative, and ‘appropriate for bedtime’. So, I am still doing yoga every day. And I will still run again, in these stupid new shoes.

Still no sign of Mark. I feel the worst for his brother Dracula, and Gordon, who considers him his kitten. What is even going through their heads?