I used to wake at 5:00 AM to write. I still get up at that hour. I brush my teeth, do some sit-ups, pour a cup of coffee, then take a seat at my desk. I sit there until 6:30, when I’m free to start my day; but for an hour or so I vacillate between fear and anger.

I don’t feel blocked in the traditional sense. I can think of stories and essays to write, and my emails have become increasingly more florid (e.g., “Were you to recommend the name of a plumber I would be most appreciative”). The disconnect seems to exist between my conscious and unconscious brains—or my left and right hemispheres, whichever you prefer. I’m used to being part of an integrated whole. I plead with my other half, “This is us—you and me! Our best interests are the same!” But he digs in his heels. He refuses to pair words with emotion. “Our” best interests don’t interest him.

I can’t exert my will over an opponent who’s evenly matched. My determination is his determination. His secrets are older than mine; he’s been successful at this for longer, and with far more at stake.

It’s a lonely feeling, not writing. There’s no stigma attached to it, it’s just—wherever I go I feel unconnected. Beginning at 5:00 AM every day, when my alarm goes off, and I rise from my bed and plead, “This is us.” And walk through darkened rooms alone.