Six months to the day since the worst day of my life.
I'd had plenty of bad days prior, but nothing that hit me with the same force and power, and nothing that has ever wounded me so deeply.
It would be no exaggeration to say I have not had a good day since. I have had some good moments, but I can't point to any stretch of more than a couple of hours that I have felt good, nor can I say that, even during those times, I was happy.
I hurt now even worse than I did then. The pain is not as sharp, but it is pervasive and consuming. It's an open, festering wound for which I have no treatment or painkiller.
I have tried counseling. I have tried medication. I have tried prayer.
I have fallen into despair and feel no hope that I will ever come back out. I have said it before, I am convinced that this is the new normal for me. There is no getting better: From here on out, this IS better.
Nothing I used to do is any help. Reading is hard. It's difficult to write. I can barely even walk anymore.
I thought I was going to die that day. I think my doctor thought so, too. Of course, lying there twitching on his office floor might have give him that impression.
I wish I had.