For so long,

I’ve put the different

Bits of myself into

Separate little boxes,

Like disassembled doll parts

Played with by a

Disturbing little girl:

Arms twisted off the

Shoulder nubs,

The two stiff, plastic

Legs jerked loose,

The little fingers worked

Under the doll chin

And the head popped off

With a sound like a

Gum snap.

The torso now a

Dumb lump

Filled with a gray foam,

The skin Barbie-tan,

Crotch smooth.

All in separate boxes,

All boxes stacked,

Largest on bottom,

Smallest on top.

The little girl

Sucking her hair strands into

Knife-points on either

Side of her face.

The little fingers

Questing for

A scab to pick.

Won’t heal for weeks.

The doll part

Metaphor played out:

The mom in a box.

The professional in a box.

The writer/artist in a box.

The recovering alcoholic in a box.

The wife in a box.

The animal that needs sleep, food, etc.

In a box.

In one 24-hour period,

I would box-hop:

The animal sleeps.

The writer writes.

The mom gets kids ready for school.

The professional commutes to work.

The professional works in an office.

The professional commutes home.

The alcoholic goes to a meeting.

The mom drives kids around,

Gets kids ready for bed.

The wife

Tries and fails to

Connect to her

Similarly compartmentalized husband.

Finally, the animal sleeps

Because supposedly,

It is now time to sleep.

Out of all of the boxes,

Work is the one with the

Most artifice.

The professional

Who doesn’t talk about recovery,

Who mentions her blog and

Novel writing to select few,

Who slogs ineffectively through the

Post-lunch afternoon lag

When a little nap would

Make all the difference in

Actually getting something done.

Who clock-watches like a factory worker.

Who gives her

Brightest smile and

Lightest moods to her

Coworkers,

Leaving the offal of

Tiredness and testiness for her

Kids and husband,

Whom she loves most

In this world.

I just

Couldn’t fucking

Do it

Anymore.

As I freaked out

Leading up to my 40th birthday a few months ago,

Being so disassembled went from being

Uncomfortable to being

Painful.

So in a bid to

Gather some of my doll parts

Together,

I quit my job and

Went off on my own.

Back to school and

The freelancing life,

There to figure out how to

Put the doll pieces back together.

So far,

We have not

Starved

Or been turned out of our house.

And me,

I’m realizing what I see in people

Who have careers and

Lives I’d like to emulate

Is integration.

They’re not

One person here and

Another there.

They’re just

Themselves

All the time.

They’ve figured out

How to make a living at

Something they’d be

Doing anyway–

Not an easy task for a

Creative-type.

They sleep when they’re tired.

They don’t have a commute.

They have energy for their

Kids and spouse.

Their creativity

Flows through their

Entire lives

Evenly.

I refuse to believe

It’s not possible to

Have all these things.

Indeed, for the past four months,

I’ve managed to

Continue moving toward it

And still pay the bills.

But I still want to

Put that doll back together

Completely.

Put a top hat on her,

Spin her around and

See if some glitter and stardust

Bring her to life.

This is my 2016.

The year of blurred lines and

Open box lids,

Of hyperlinks,

Of erring on the side of

Oversharing,

Of refining this skill of

Hurling myself

Out into the world

Again and

Again and

Again.

Bright eyes and

Light moods for

Everyone,

Especially myself in the mirror.