what happened to me
The years it hurt to be alive.
For most of my early twenties, I had nerve pain bad enough to make me wonder, regularly, whether quitting was the only door left. It wasn’t the dramatic kind of pain. It was the kind that wears you down quietly, day after day, until you forget what your own face looked like before.
And then I was healed. Not gradually, suddenly, and in a way I still can’t fully explain. What I can tell you is that the years on the other side of it are different. I see beauty where I used to only see weather. I write thrillers where most people would write a memoir, because thrillers are how I trick myself into telling the truth.