This morning, for example, it told me (because like Google, it is creepy and all-knowing) that six years ago today I set off for New Zealand. For 42 days.
In those 42 days, my weight plummeted from dangerous to deadly; my mind fractured, knit itself back together, fractured again; I got my first tattoo; I cried until I felt dry on the inside; I was given a name that is not my own, that still feels foreign to me despite a great man's conviction that he was right (and by default, I was wrong); I met some of the most intensely alive, vibrant, and giving people I have ever met. Ever.
I learned yoga. I learned to teach yoga. I learned to let go.
Still, sometimes those many days don't seem real to me. Sometimes they feel like a dream I had that sustains me even while it shames me. It feels like something I didn't do, but some other version of me did.
Some version of me that I still want to be- with thin arms and ragged ferocity. With terror and honesty and lies; with creativity that exploded because of desperation. I miss that version of me. Beyond the disease that is my oldest, most unrelenting companion, I miss that version of me for her flagrant, bold insanity. Never was my writing so raw, never were my feelings so scattered or simultaneously so underwhelming and so overwhelming.
Never was I so wild. My journals from that time, this blog from that time, are uncomfortable but they are real because they are hers. And because she is me and they are mine, too.
Sometimes those many days don't seem real and then sometimes it seems like they are too far removed from me. That she is.
Just.
Flies.
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