About 30 years ago, I was really into reenactment. My mother made me a full circle cloak. It’s a soft brown corduroy that reverses to a navy blue cotton. It has a hood that hides my face. Yes, I still have my cloak.

Some days I want to dig out my cloak and pretend it makes me invisible. I’d like to go about my day in anonymity, without forced interactions. I’d like to just wrap myself up in my cloak and disappear.

I have a metaphorical cloak too. It’s the armor I don every morning as I prepare to face the day’s challenges. Some people pat down their pockets to make sure they have everything. I run down a mental list…sense of humor (check), sanity (most days), emotional sunblock (check), heart not on sleeve (maybe), proverbial duct tape (always comes in handy).

Much like the soft brown cloak, my other cloak is used to keep me “safe” from whatever the day throws at me. And, like my fabric cloak, there are places where the cloak swirls and allows things to slip past my mental armor and inflict great pain. It doesn’t matter how hard I try, something always slips past.

So, here I am typing. Wounded and knocked about, but still trying to patch up the damage from the last few days. Drained, spent, exhausted. Living in a world where decisions are made about me….without me.

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