I awake and begin to put myself together. The week is rough. My body’s tired. My head’s full. To the brim. Like a bin, overflowing, needing to be emptied. I rush through each moment, burst through the barrier of exhaustion. Clean, drive, advise, admonish, applaud. I climb. A mountain of laundry. I feel angry. I unleash. I stop. I process. I relax. I chat. I flounder. In pieces. I sleep.

I awake and begin to put myself together. Organise. Move mountains. Rush from hour to hour. Relax for a moment. I’m the taxi driver, the person who reassures, the confidante, the facilitator, the fixer, the person who can be ignored, abused, neglected, and will love you, no matter. I ready myself for other people. People who appear all shiny and happy. Perfect people who check in to beautiful places. People who express their love, their joy, their amazing lives, daily. I enjoy the moment of adult conversation. I chat. Things are said. they make no sense, to me. I wonder if I’m too big, or too small? Too quiet, or too loud? Say too much? Say too little? I fall apart.

I awake and begin to put myself together. The silence of a morning helps. Quietly, I move about. I don’t wish to wake my beautiful monsters. I eat. Good food to help repair my fading muscles and my worn out coverings. I step outside, cup in hand. I breath in the world, deeply. The sounds of morning, the smell of coffee.

Then I walk, the dog at my heels. My guilt is retreating. I move forward. Refreshed, I return to help my beautiful monsters, massaging a few more knots of guilt away as I shop for the next school day. To meet a new week, fresh with the unknown. Countless possibilities.

I awake and begin to put myself together. The day has not long started, when my greeting is ignored. I remind myself to brush it off. It’s not a reflection of me. It’s of someone else, I see. I wonder how my beautiful monsters are coping in this sometimes hostile world and I long to fix anything that may be broken. I sit for a coffee amongst a circle of beings. Nicer beings. More together. With bigger ideas. Younger faces. More fun. More serious. Non menopauseans. Not like me. I convince myself that it doesn’t matter, that I don’t mind. But it does. And I do. This generation. Non drinkers. Non boys. Non girls. Non opinion sharing. Social media is scaring. Non judgemental. Yet they might get cancelled.

I might have an opinion so I feel alone. I remind myself that it doesn’t matter. No one cares. I miss the time, not too long before, when I didn’t have my cloak of invisibility, that makes me easy to ignore.

I’m lucky to be here. I smile and embrace the freedom that my cloak bestows. I have highs and I have lows. I know the privilege I live.

I awake and begin to put myself back together. It’s not the same. It’s different. It’s good.