I thought I had finally gotten myself together. I’ve dismissed my predictions of the future as a dysfunctional coping mechanism from my past, coming back to haunt me through dredging my sense of ignorant belief. I’ve justified my current anxieties to myself as callbacks to a time I remember as simpler than now, and the symptoms I exhibit as nothing that can’t be solved chemically and verbally. I thought I had whittled everything down to a personal sort of science. It was verifiable and testable, and able to be explained in oral reports when prompted, spoken like academic journals are written and planned meticulously beforehand.
Those strings of words that came half-naturally and half-awkwardly from my throat are now absent for what I have “seen” for myself. It’s coming, though. I can feel it, and that is my only proof. There is only my understanding. There is nothing for anyone else, and nobody else cou