Eight months of my life have been a blur. I vaguely remember being happy for some time, and I distinctly remember pain. There had been moments of self-pity and loathing, but I can’t be sure. It’s all a haze. There was also something akin to love. I think I’m sure of this. Bits and pieces of memory float in and out of my head – people, places, sounds, instances, thoughts, actions, voices – but none that I can be sure of.
It’s like being awoken from a coma. Things are clear now, but the last thing I remember clearly is looking down from the window of an airplane, 10,000 feet up in the sky and watching my home through a haze of tears and clouds. After that, it’s been more or less blurry completely. Things have been done, words have been said, books have been written and prayers have been sent, but I still don’t quite remember much.
This time round, though, the tears hesitate to come. Pragmatic voices hold them back. Relax, they say. You’re going to a better place.