I have an overactive survival instinct that likes to roam. I've taken to calling him Cal. At any moment, he's prone to catch me unaware from behind, snap my neck in half almost to say, pay attention, if that was a real person you could have died. Around darkened corners he lurks, the innocuous clothes hanging against the door become a sinister predator. All in the name of Cal and his obsession with keeping me alive. These days I try my best to accept his anxiety and yank him back into the fold. Cal, get back here. You can't keep me alive if you keep running helter-skelter. I breathe deep and accept I have what it takes to live, to survive, and perhaps one day thrive.