Eventually something you love is going to be taken away. And then you will fall to the floor crying. And then, however much later, it is finally happening to you: you’re falling to the floor crying thinking, 'I am falling to the floor crying,' but there’s an element of the ridiculous to it—you knew it would happen and, even worse, while you’re on the floor crying you look at the place where the wall meets the floor and you realize you didn’t paint it very well.
this morning the doctor said that i am done getting electroconvulsive therapy. i don’t know what to think of being declared “in remission.” will it last? i am scared, but also tentatively hopeful.