into the brighter day

I've been too busy to post anything these past two weeks, and also I suppose unable to articulate certain missives from my darker regions. I did jot this down this admittedly hormone-inspired spelunk in my notebook a week ago though...
This fog of fear and longing is thick as my will is thin. I can't see beyond my outstretched hand and what I do see shifts its shape and meaning with the changing light. Why move at all from this place? My feet march on though, legs snap woodenly forward, my top-heavy remainder following that, teetering dangerously back before tilting forward once again. But my feet don't know they walk in circles, and my head only suspects as much because I feel inexplicably dizzy.
I need help.
I recognize this vibration of air as my voice. This amazing orchestration of body parts--lungs to larynyx to tongue, teeth, palate, and lips, and then ears for verification, looping feedback--this tiny miracle is not lost on me. But the real wonder is that my brain conceived the words at all.
Despite what you may imagine, I can tell you a rock does not get lonely, an island is content to be uncharted until it is swallowed by the sea. But this analogy only goes so far with me today. I am not solid and impenetrable, remote and unknown, worn down only by the unrelenting forces of time and water. Today I am smashed apart by a six-year-old's innocent words in under a minute, and it doesn't take oceans, just a few salty tears to dissolve what remains.
Well, this is just part of being a parent, I am tempted to say. And it's true.
Later I was surprised and thankful to have a shoulder to cry on, to melt into actually, about this, all of this which I can't write about here. I was expecting nothing, except to wander and eventually find my way as I always do, but she somehow found me in this fog, grabbed my hand and led me back into the brighter day. Who is this strange visitor to my island?