Zoloft. I was desperate for you.

I take Zoloft now, so I have no sex drive. I have no wild leanings over anything, anymore.

I read something that Ariel Gore said once about being a mama and taking anti-depressants. She said something like, Go ahead and take them if you're really losing it, be careful not to let anybody prescribe away who you really are.

I was really losing it.

I also sometimes wonder.

The way all of my anxiety, trembling and panic have been painted white, so has all of my impulsiveness, my wildness, my longings and my thrashing.

I'm not crazy any more and that's good. How important is drowning in a red sea, anyway? I can still write, I can still lay on the floor laughing with my girls and know how much I love them. I might not lay awake at night, lonely for them and scared that the world will gobble them up while I'm sleeping. I might not feel so happy over a rhyme at library story time that I have to hold my breathe to keep from crying. I don't feel certain ways anymore, but I haven't forgotten anything either.

I wonder who I'll be at the end of my life. When I'm half-asleep and all glimmering and godlike, will I want those moments back?

Will I grasp at those early mornings, shaking and staring at myself like I was a stranger, like something wasn't quite right. But what? I didn't know what was wrong, only that it was something and it was terrible and it was coming for me. The bathroom light was too bright over my head. Will I long for every moment of my life, cling to them, thank the heavens for them?

I don't know what I'll wish for when it's time to die. I have my head, now. I have my feet under me. I haven't shaken Kurt awake before dawn with my skin covered in electricity, biting down on my tongue to keep my teeth from chattering in years. I haven't been pacing the cold kitchen floor. I haven't forgotten anything, either and I don't want to go back.

I wonder about sex, sometimes and about being so overwhelmed by my body and my thoughts that I was lost to everybody. It was a different kind of being lost, though. I was choking and spitting up black water. I was desperate for you. I was reaching for your hand.