This week has been an other-worldly one.
There has been blueberry soup, midnight phone calls by nurses and suicidal friends, driving cars nearly unconscious, music from my youth, early morning walks in snow, panic and vomit, the glorious feeling of being helplessly in love with a stranger, falling asleep on the bathroom floor to the sound of a scientific podcast on lichen, normal workdays, praying, sending pictures of my cardiogram to people to prove that I have a heart, little sleep and even less food.
I have prepared myself for another desperate trip to the emergency room by picking out clothes warm enough to suppress my uncontrolled shivers but also flattering enough to make me look enchanting to the hot doctor on duty as I expire at his feet.
I have wished for physical pain instead of mental one, while being profoundly grateful for the strength still left in me. I have once again decided not to hide from my friends.
I have cowered in corners and fearlessly plowed straight on. I have driven to the hospital, just to sit in the car outside it for a while before going home again.
I have battled horrifying anxiety by turning it into physical nausea and by falling in love.
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