I was going to write about the iPod cozy I made.

I'm still feeling well, but I do have to battle the anxiety, especially at night and in the morning. Especially at night. And especially in the morning.

I had an awful night. I was wide awake past 3:30am, I say to my lover, and I woke up every hour after that. This morning sucks.

He smiled and gave me a huge hug from somewhere beneath his many layers of wool and cotton. He still wore his new toggle coat and toque, inside, while I glared at my clean clothes and tried to will them onto me. All of your nights are awful. You never sleep well. It's nearly afternoon. Let's go get you breakfast.

I stopped, as if I had started before that. I hadn't.

I knew that what he meant was really I know you are scared, but you will carry on. I will help you. The worst part is over now. You need to get some fresh air, exercise, and you need to eat something.

That's why he leaves his jacket on, even though I tell him he can take it off. He doesn't budge for my illness. He waits for me to appear, even just a shadow, some small piece of evidence that I'm in there somewhere, and he holds on to it. That's the part he loves.

I think.

I don't know how he does it. But he does. And later, over breakfast, I ask him about Vancouver. He gets excited. He tells me about job openings and housing and of grassy places my dog could play in. Once I get out of bed and have a latte, the west coast doesn't seem so very far away.

It's just one possibility. But. There are possibilities.

I shall have to try to remember that.