The Rollercoaster
Chapter 12 of The Woods Behind Me
When we finally crossed back into Kentucky, I didn’t feel relief. I didn’t feel safe. I didn’t feel anything at all, really.
I was coming down off a ten-shot-a-day espresso habit — the only thing that had kept me upright in Washington — and without that caffeine propping me up, the bottom dropped out.
Not the kind of “I’m sad today” depression people joke about. Not the quiet melancholy you medicate with a bath and a candle.
This was the kind of depression that makes your own mother look at you and think: I’m losing her.
And she wasn’t wrong.
I was disappearing in slow motion.
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