During my ‘wallowing-in-it’ period I wrote this (among other things):
"I keep getting out of bed and breathing in and out, somehow knowing I won't always have to remind myself to keep getting out of bed and breathe in and out. Somehow knowing, one way or another, there is a light at the end of this tunnel. And it isn't so very far away.
Days won't always be spent gazing hazily in the direction of walls, or whatever happens to be in front of me.
Every crisis is unique, and none last forever.
Life-changing evolutions into the unknown don't happen everyday, and are not necessarily bad things. I am looking forward to the silver lining now. When I get to the end of this tunnel I'll turn the corner and see where that leads me, and into what I'll metamorphose."
Three years on in the refuge of my parents’ home and all I have to show for forty-eight years on the planet are seven boxes. While they still remain firmly closed to this day, my own chrysalis is beginning to open.
I now have more to show for life than things. And what I have now won’t go into boxes.