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During seasons of restlessness and upsets, sometimes I miss myself
The search begins with taking different routes home
Eating breakfast for dinner
Skipping instead of walking
Talking to the cat only in Spanish
Wearing overalls to work
Shaking up routine until the breadcrumbs fall along the path
It would be easier to put out an APB on myself
But it would alarm the people who love me and physically I appear present
But I know what I know and I know when am not
It is silly to miss myself, except it is a ridiculous rite of passage
Only after admission and fruitless tricks
Can I bow to the stranger in the mirror and begin the rigorous interrogation
Who are you?
How did you get here?
What do you want?
Where is she?
Why can’t you give her back to me?
I am Barbara Walters and Oprah combined – kind, warm, disarming, and relentless.
I have to lose myself so I can find myself, I remember
And then
I have to explain myself to myself before I can circle back
I sit with my own disappearance
That I cannot report to anyone
Until the light comes back into me
It is tricky to be your own therapist, PI and fairy Godmother, but most of the time it is possible.
Better For That 