We get wounded. We get dragged out back and shown the better parts of ourselves through sleet and snow and stammer out repetitions of denial. It’s hard to accept our own advice, to reiterate back in the darkness the things I have told others when they too wandered off into their own woods. It’s just hard. All of it. They say they see me seeing them and I sit in red chairs and speak out loud. I wonder a lot where I’ve gone lately. Everything I have ever read is telling me to go with this, to allow myself to be changed, to accept life as the way it is, to quit fighting. But everything feels unnatural. I am only half brought back from the dead. And on the good days, even that doesn’t seem good enough. We get wounded and we walk around with these gaping holes on us. The only prescription anyone can give me is time. We will never be the same. And I’ve got to get okay with that. I’ve got to stop taking the same streets home.