Made of eggshells

Marie has been really upset since the election, to the point of not being able to sleep and having massive anxiety attacks. Part of me wants to tell her she's kind of overdoing it -- shit, your candidate didn't win but it's not the Apocalypse. But of course she's not doing it on purpose, so it's not going to help to say any of that.

  
I've tried to help however I can. For the most part this doesn't mean holding her, because she lives a thousand miles away (although she did say she felt a lot better while she was visiting my family over Thanksgiving). But I've sent her encouraging words, along with instructions on the most basic form of meditation and a loving-kindness mantra for her to repeat (not this one, but close).  

Finally a couple of weeks ago her doctor put her on Zoloft. And naturally she had a very bumpy start. The first days or weeks on any new anti-depressant are like that. So she told me she was feeling very fragile, and asked for support.

I sent her a letter with a couple of things in it. First, I talked a little bit about how I experience fragility, echoing a couple of the ideas I describe here (though not the whole essay). But then I tried to offer her a little more:

Your body feels like eggshells -- brittle, bare.
Your skin feels tender as if washed with lye,
Then left to sit, exposed to open air,
Scarred by the very snowflakes in the sky.
 
Your spirit feels like eggshells -- fragile, low,
To flinch when startled at a sudden din
Or brood on gloomy, long-remembered woe
That wets your eyes and stabs your heart again.
 
But you are more than eggshells -- for you know
I love you and you love me in return.
Outside it's dark and wet with sleet and snow,
But here inside the coals of love still burn.
 
No eggshell lasts forever -- but when it breaks,
The bird inside spreads out her wings and wakes.

Marie was very grateful. The day I sent it she was feeling so rotten she couldn't process it any farther than to say, "My boyfriend sent me a sonnet! How sweet." But a few days later she was able to consider it as poetry, and we discussed back and forth how it might be improved.

Clearly she was thinking about more than she said. And then one day she went almost completely silent until night-time, when she sent back ...

My body feels like eggshells – brittle, bare,
My skin abraded as if scoured with salt
Then left to chill, exposed to bitter air
As blow by blow of news my eyes assault.
 
My spirit feels like eggshells – fragile, low,
Remembering past times hope was entombed
And still the news pours in new tales of woe:
Of Klansmen, oilmen, loonies given room.
 
Yet I am more than eggshells, for I know
I love you and you love me in return
Though all outside may bleak and bitter grow,
Yet here inside the coals of love still burn,
 
And burning, still inspire that bird to wake,
Which, stretched in hope of flight, all shells will break.

And all I could think was, "Hot damn, but I love being involved with a(nother) poet!"