Some days I can barely catch my breath; I am filled with terror. My body aches, my stomach churns, my head feels as though it will explode through my face, flinging all my rage, fear and insecurities into the universe to spread disease to all the unsuspecting people who circle around me.  Their orbits dance in tantalizing step, each near miss a blessing of ambiguity, focused internally, so as not to contaminate another. I feel so alone.

The effort required to convince people to modify their behaviors to protect us from this invisible enemy exhausts me, as drained, I sink into despair. “Buck up” doesn’t cut it, nor does every justification for doing what seems so important to do, even in the face of global precautionary modifications. Every venture out carries risk. Every conversation turns to conflict.

Perfect love casts out fear, but yet here I am, still terrified. So my love must be imperfect?