I read a lot. Emerson, Thoreau, Watts. The Bible, a couple of pages. The Bhagavad Gita, Dr. Seuss. I write awkward, random poetry. Our floor goes on a field trip to a restaurant. I eat a waffle with syrup and I ask for more. They're teaching me how to play bridge. I'm not interested in poker. All bets are off.
I'm spinning the silk threads of my story, weaving the fabric of my world. The tiny elf dancer became a wooden doll whose strings were jerked by people not paying attention. I spun out of control. Eating was hard. Breathing was hard. Living was hardest.
I wanted to swallow the bitter seeds of forgetfulness. Cassie did, too. We leaned on each other, lost in the dark and wandering in endless circles. She got too tired and went to sleep. Somehow, I dragged myself out of the dark and asked for help.
I spin and weave and knit my words and visions until a life starts to take shape. There is no magic cure, no making it all go away forever. There are only small steps upward; an easier day, an unexpected laugh, a mirror that doesn't matter anymore.
I am thawing.