I feel like my hands and feet have been tied behind my back, and I’ve been thrown into a deep pit of water. I can’t breathe.
If the blog of my journey were a record album, I would want to push the needle down hard into the grooves and scrape it across the entire story, destroying the totality of it with a primal screech before breaking the album into pieces on the floor.

Fortunately the voices in my head are stilled by the more objective voices of friends – friends who can stomach my extremism without judgment. They can share my strong emotions, but talk me back from the ledge of my fears. They speak hard truths, but with compassion.



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