Immediately after Jay moved in, the children both started waking up from nightmares, and before that first week was done, the toddler started talking about a monster in their room. After two months, she was too scared to go into her room at all, so we had to coax her to sleep in the living room then transfer her to her bed, praying that she wouldn’t wake up.

A week after Jay left, the toddler talked about the monster going to sleep, and she stopped being so afraid. Now I can put the children into their room to play while I work on my sewing, and they are as happy as bugs. It’s refreshing to have my hobbies back.

There was something horribly wrong during those months he was here. I don’t think the timing with the toddler’s monster is a coincidence, that he had brought something dark with him that the children had sensed. The thing is, I’m not recovering the way that my babies have. I feel like I’m still grappling with darkness, and I’m losing.

Last night I had a nightmare, and cried out for my husband to help. It was like an evil spirit had tried to attack me. There’s screaming in my head that I feel compelled to drown out, because otherwise it’s too much to bear.

Nothing is going smoothly. The bathroom remodel has hit so many snags, we don’t know when it will be over — our contractor hasn’t even been able to start work yet. A simple car repair was fouled up when the necessary part wasn’t shipped. My pregnancy symptoms have gotten so bad, I can hardly eat anything. It feels like we’ve been cursed.


I keep forgetting to take my prenatal vitamins, and it always results in bad days with lots of fatigue. You’d think that I would learn, but I can’t keep anything in my head any more.

My friend Sage is a doula, and recommended some midwives to me, that will hopefully turn out better from what I experienced in the past. Since Sage is having a baby shortly before mine is due, I’m not sure if she’ll be up for attending my labor, but she was open to the idea when I mentioned it. It might be nice to have a doula there.


I’m not going to make it. 

Whoever emerges at the end of this time won’t be me. Maybe she’ll be better, undamaged and free from the hardships that I’ve had to endure. Maybe she won’t spend every moment of every day fighting against overwhelming  darkness, the way that I have. 

I’ve died again and again, more times than I can easily count. I don’t survive, and I don’t become stronger. I simply recreate myself and start over. Memories, pain, damage, are all locked away in safe and hidden places.

I know what it feels like to crumble into ashes. I know that I’ve reached my end.

I’m not going to make it.

The only hope that I have left is that I’ll be reborn as a better person.


My one-year-old managed to whack me a good one right on my cheekbone with her forehead. I cried out in pain, and quickly had tears streaming down my face as my cheek began to swell up. My three-year-old brought me a blanket and a stuffed animal, kissed it better, then recommended that I put Desitin on it.

I have the best daughter in the world.


I made a shirt for my husband. Just a basic t-shirt, because after a couple months of searching, I had been unable to find anything that suited his tastes — who knew it would be so hard to find a plain, durable t-shirt in his size? After it was finished, he put it on and strutted around, grinning all the while. It occurred to me that this was probably the first handmade shirt that he’s received since he was a little kid.

I’ve been wanting to sew clothing for him for ages. I tried a couple years ago, but I wasn’t in a mental state where I could pull off the focus required. It was surprisingly hard to get this one put together, between children and ill-timed power outages, but I’m hopeful that the next few will go quicker.

I like seeing him in his new shirt.


I’ve already managed to crack the screen of my iPad. My first reaction is to start beating myself up with the message, “This is why I shouldn’t be allowed to have nice things,” even though I did try to be careful and I don’t know when or how it happened. 

Another part of me wants to keep it this way. The crack is barely noticeable and doesn’t interfere with performance at all, but since the iPad is no longer “perfect” evil spirits are less likely to try to mess with it. They’re real, you know. They’re the reason why someone always spills on your freshly cleaned upholstery, or dings your brand new car with a shopping cart. Then you end up going years and years without any new stains or dents, until shortly after you finally get around to fixing it.

Still, I wish I knew what had happened.