I wrote about “sinking into the terrifying Hell of my own soul, a cold, utter darkness of the scariest, most painful insanity that peels off your skin while your brain screams, crushed by madness,” in my book. That crushing insanity has been gone since I published the book.
Alas, it only exacerbated the loneliness. I sit here and listen to the echo of madness reverberating and am not sure what to think or feel. I am supposed to know the answers to my own questions, the whole damn book was the process of searching for the lost soul, and it feels like I do know them and yet it does not feel finished, the healing process.
Funny all of that, because my own thinking, expressed there, is somehow funny, despite the darkness of the theme. I guess I am not grateful enough for the gift, the "crushing madness," rather its absence, has given me.