You feel like a newborn baby. Wide-eyed, wondrous, and scared of everything. Every new situation can harm you without warning.
Soothing words come from all directions. People are wise and kind and boring and stupid. The world is new and it’s awful, and intriguing.
Doors in your mind fly open, and you clamber to shut them before their hope spills out.
You wake up a tourist in your own life, and you have to slowly make your own acquaintance.
“Hi, how are you, do you like tea in the morning, is this TV show important to you, do you even like this band?”
The world is terrifyingly open to you. The new guy at work that you had only been passingly polite to may now hold the key to your life-altering next step. The world is simultaneously in technicolor and grayscale. You breathe deeply as a leisure activity. You put in your headphones and you keep walking.
You fall apart and people catch you. And sometimes they don’t, and the fall is hard. You’re left gasping in your bed, riddled with memories like a heroin flashback.
The lies and the mistakes are spiders that nest under your skin. People see your pain and are helpless in its wake. They’re outraged, they’re soothing, they’re indifferent.
You drink a beer and try to write and laugh at yourself for being so cliché.
Small wins are everything. A new quiet patio. A movie that speaks to you. Cooking a meal actually for one. Cleaning your bathroom. A song that gets your head up. It’s like a deer learning to walk. Hugs are oxygen.
You’re so fucking irritable. You feel like you’re talking about it all the time, but you’re not saying anything. Cross another day off.