Dawn. Up early enough now each day to see the sunrise, but too busy to look out of the window.... Her days are so regimented, such a contrast to the former minutes, hours, days, weeks, months, years of open time. It is like being a prisoner freed, she thinks, as she finds herself happily chatting with anyone in the office, except of course while she focuses intently and with such purpose at finally accomplishing something tangible. The focus and the structure of her days seems somehow to provide a focus and a structure to her mind, though not so much her fractured heart.
Morning. Preparing with purpose for a day spent in purposeful activity - efforts and and projects, analysis and configuration, networking and researching - things that are a playground for a sharp mind. She cannot believe how contrasted it all is with the darkness she was in for so long, that suicidal darkness of pain and confusion, a heart wrenched and bleeding. It is so easy to look back and to try to think the thoughts of encouragement and awareness towards that self that she was. Why is it so difficult to capture those same thoughts of positivity while in the midst of the darkness, she wonders.... It is so tempting to try and offer help to others lost, to try to reassure the starving that there is nourishment to be had, the blind that there will be light, the bleeding that a healing can be achieved, but she restrains herself from doing so, knowing how senseless it all sounds when one is so trapped.
Noon. Midday goes unnoticed, so busy is she with creating and writing and defining and typing and calling and planning and conversing and learning it all so fast.... Food is again an afterthought, just as it was behind the wall of anxiety, but now it is manic excitement that forestalls any hunger. Her immune system even seems to be reinforced, having escaped the winter illness that just ran rampant through her own household. Dedicated to the basic steps of proper sleep, vitamins, and always a little something to eat at each meal, it still cannot be enough to explain her resiliancy. No, she thinks, this is the strength of the body in response to the spirit finally receiving what it needs - energizing focus, mental purpose, and interaction with the world.
Afternoon. Almost never is there a day when the commonplace clock-watching of employees everywhere is a compulsion for her. In fact, she must remind herself to end her workday on time, racing off to the "second shift" of home and family. Even a friendly coworker had to remind her to go home one day, so immersed was she in her new obsessive efforts of productivity. Again, the unreal juxtaposition of this ignorance of time is apparent against her former reality - painful moments of emotional torture that made minutes and hours and days stretch and tighten like a noose. How can it be? is always the question lurking, when she stops to consider the difference....
Evening. The most hectic and sometimes frantic part of the work-a-day week. Crush of dinner preparations and mail and children and homework, housework and pets and preparation to do it all over again in a mere 10 hours.... She falls into bed just after her children do, foregoing any former habits of technology: the television, the computer. These distractions do not fit into her schedule now, and although she misses the enjoyments and the connections, there are only so many hours in the day.
Night.... The light passes into darkness, the world quiets itself, and a shadow obscuring the brightness of day signals all to rest. This is the time of renewal and regeneration, but it is also a time which is an echo to her former darkness. The dreams do not often come, but they also do not stay away for very long. The thoughts, the compulsions, the obsessions trigger a memory of tears, floating just beneath the surface. In the quiet of the dark, she realizes still that there is a part, a piece, a space, a corner which remains forever in darkness, perpetually in shadow, no matter the the daylight and busy-ness, the purpose and presence of everything good and new. It is as if she is the sun, ablaze with fuel and energy, lit from within and radiating warmth and life; except, she thinks, for this bite taken out of the corner, an arc of darkness that neither advances nor retreats, a section of her soul that will forever remain in a permanent state of partial eclipse.