It has taken six years and counting for me to put the pieces back together after I disintegrated. I kept going, even when the wings had been shot off, the engi

It has taken six years and counting for me to put the pieces back together after I disintegrated. I kept going, even when the wings had been shot off, the engine was on fire, and the yoke had been replaced with a bowl of lime chutney. Stiff upper lip, old boy, we’ll be back in Blighty soon. Just a little further and we’ll be safely on the ground. The lies I told myself, myriad. It all, ultimately, inevitably, met a fiery end - I lost almost every element that comprised myself, and all that remained was a bitter, charred husk, barely capable of functioning homeostasis, never mind running a business, or expressing any emotion other than fury. Six years, last year. Started, for the first time in all eternity, wanting to do things. Wanting to play a game, to watch a movie, to spend time with friends, to do, to create. It took me utterly recusing myself from the world, therapy, drugs, more therapy, and it still isn’t quite gone - there remains a dark shadow in my mind.