For those used to writing about the weight of depression, happiness seems hard to define as something solid.
So I managed to lead one and a half routes.
Wait, one and a half?
I spent the next 4 days limping.
But I can’t tell you how good it feels to have reached the top.
I can barely believe that back in August I was told there was a 90% chance my BONE WOULD DIE and I’d likely have fusion surgery and it would be all dramatic and terrifying and I wouldn’t walk again and my whole life would change.
And by no means has ‘recovery’ been perfect. I managed to get myself into a nightmarish relationship straight afterwards, was further emotionally traumatised by Will.. uhh I mean Bill, and ended up quitting my whole life in Oxford. But, at no point since Recovery Day no.1 did I reach the lowest ever again. Why?
Because I knew I could fucking handle it.
I imagine that I’ll just trim the leaves and blooms that have died, which will make room for new ones to blossom anyway.
It’s not too hard to straighten the sofa throw.
I imagine I’ll do it in a little bit.
And then, you have one of those days where, peace is
It’s small and quiet and unobtrusive but it’s powerful. Taking up the spaces that are usually raging, and the cracks that are empty and crumbling. It’s not even silence, more a peach wash of warmth. Faintly glowing in the background of a good day.