I still can’t get over the extreme contrast between how I feel now and how I felt at the end of July.

I’m…. normal. Not depressed.

I just read through the messages with Aunt Margaret and Uncle Chris that led to me getting hospitalized, and god damn I was mortally fucking terrified.

I was in so much pain. Abject suffering suffused every corner of my spirit and body.

I genuinely feared I was going to die. And I almost did. I really, truly almost did.

And yet I’ve gone from the most harrowing experience of my entire life to a healthy buoyancy in less than two months.

Fuck, it’s surprising how quickly you can bounce back from the deepest depths.

I have trouble casually grasping the magnitude of what happened. Like, it’s hard to believe that the memory of something so colossally horrendous lies inside of me.

I can’t wrap my head around it — it’s too big. But when I visit it, I get glimpses of the extremity of anguish that enveloped me.

There’s something sacrosanct about that experience. A kind of solemn reverence.

And the contours it left in my psyche will forever serve as a memorial.