Autopilot

It's always like this, huh. Once you've reached a high, you get the rug pulled rudely from underneath your feet and land sorely on your rump.

I felt a rush, speed; without registering the feeling of locomotion. I was driving without seeing. Nothing felt real; not the slick of my hands, the tension in my feet, the hot Sunday sun beating on my face, nor the cars moving alongside (or towards) me. Worse, some part of me knew that reality could see me bleeding against the steering wheel in a minor slip of judgment. Still I drove on autopilot.

He was there, best as he could; as I walked for 40 minutes sick with worry, looking for her. This is not what mothers do. But she's no ordinary mom.

"Nahh," he says, "No need to get all so miserable about this. Ugly things happen all the time."
He's the only one I know who uses "Nahh". It makes me smile.

4 hours later, I'd packed my bags and left home. We needed time out.



And now I'm back where I'd spent the whole 18 years of my life, picking up the pieces. I've changed before; I can do it again. That is my sole consolation.

I'll be (almost) a saint.