On grey days, the voice in my head doesn’t whisper; it drones. It tells me to stop. Stop the poems. Stop the commitment. Give up. It’s the voice of the Martyr, trying to convince me that ‘I am ME first’ was just a phase I outgrew. That putting on my oxygen mask first is selfish. He wants me to believe this (my commitment to write a love poem a day for a year) is no longer necessary. I claimed the Sovereign Wolf. Mission accomplished.
But caregiving isn’t a mission you ‘accomplish.’ It’s a siege.
The hardest battle happens at 4:00 AM, in that blurred space between dreaming and waking, where the darkness tries to convince me I’ve disappeared. In the quiet of the still sleeping house, to claim my peace and calm, I must wake up and physically reclaim my own name.
I am not a shadow. I am not a medical assistant. I am a woman who writes.
I am ME first. A caregiver second.
The ‘Critter’ in my mind wants me to believe that holding onto myself is a betrayal.
I say No.
Saying ‘no’ is the only way I stay alive while the sun stays hidden.
Moon-Sized Craters by Louise Gallagher 4:00 AM. Darkness drones. Light escapes. My mind a map of moon-sized craters hollowed out to erase my name. No way to stay alive but to scream my name. I am ME first. A caregiver second.



You are not the disease just like cancer is not the patient. You are still you. While the disease can control actions it can not control your thoughts or poems. Don't believe that it can.