I wrote as if I had an audience. As if someone else would someday want to know what had happened to me on November 29, 2013. My heart told me that this little “thing” was the real thing—the first flowering of my betrothal to Christ, and a gift that would never be taken away from me, as long as I lived.
It seemed as if the dark cloud of PMDD hid also a secret gift. The disorder that had caused me so much suffering, was also the very thing that could produce new life.
I studied the month of June with dread. What would happen in two weeks, when I started having those alarming symptoms again? I felt a bit like a werewolf fearing the full moon.
“Then you have to find a way to stay calm, even when everything around you is not calm,” I lectured myself.
I needed to find a way to remain at peace during a domestic crisis. But how?
I wondered if Jesus was also trying to show Father Philip that he was not alone. A small band of parishioners were still present, keeping vigil with Father and Our Lord until the very end.
I’d spent the last two years staring at the same four walls, the same few faces, the same sidewalks, parks and streets. In order to produce new writing—new art—I needed a fresh vista.