I visited the exhibit of an artist who had developed an allergy

to electricity and paint and all his dyes. Now, he works

by candlelight and weaves colorless fabrics large as walls.

Electricity is a mystery to me. It sparks our cars, brights

our lights, beats our hearts, flashes news along our nerves,

translates will to action. (All winter, my husband is shocked

by door handles, shopping cart handles, my nose, my lips.

His kiss is a star between us.) In the 1800s, doctors believed

mental illness was a disease of the nerves: they prescribed

the rest cure, rich foods, and dangerous medicines that

didn’t work. As I child, I thought the song lyric “Here

comes your 19th nervous breakdown” was about my mother.

She prescribed herself the rest cure, which looked, to me,

a lot like depression: so many months lost to dark rooms,

cold coffee, cigarette butts. Rest wasn’t cure, but symptom.

Me? I’d outwit, outsprint lethargy with my will. I did.

Until this illness made the sheaves around my nerves

feel stripped. I wish I could spread my nerves like a net

across the bed for a nap, pause leaps across synaptic

gaps. Has my electricity gone askew? Or are there potholes

in my paths? Doctors wrote “anxiety” in their notes

(tut-tutted the sensitive imagination, recommended

meditation) until I finally had a diagnosis; even so,

they can’t explain why self-electrocution is a symptom.

Nervous breakdowns are out of fashion. Anxiety

is trending. Bedrotting as a cure is popular on Tik Tok.

Doctors prescribed dangerous medications that didn’t work,

Only rest helps. And movement. In some delicately

textured, ever-changing weave no expert can prescribe.

I must pay attention to my signals. But not too much

–or my hissing nerves will drive me frantic. I try to meditate.

I’m learning a new art. I must feel my way by candlelight.