The story will not be ending anytime soon, and I feel like I’m stuck in the tumultuous second act of the novel of my life whose momentum has gotten out of the author’s control.
When something—a smell, a sound, a taste—induces nostalgia for me, it isn’t for my actual experiences, nor is it for a rose-tinted past that I lived differently to how I view it. It’s for past me’s romanticized version of the future.
Recovery is a huge word. It carries so much weight, so much responsibility.