I don't feel as though I am alive. I don't feel like myself. I am exhausted and foggy. I plow through the days: wake, shower, work, eat, work, sleep.

I haven't exercised in weeks. In my spare time, all I can manage is a few chapters from a novel. I keep skipping band.

When faced with a pollen-covered car, a yard dotted with dandelions, an overripe pineapple, my insides scrunch into a ball of tense dread. How am I going to make it through this job?

My bank account buoys with the overtime hours on my paycheque, and then the house efficiently siphons the extra from the top.

We have a stream of house guests. This weekend is the third weekend in a row. I wash the sheets and the shower, stock the fridge, fill the cars with gas.