I realize that most people never get the chance to take a year off of life to focus on themselves and their health and recovery. The year reference is a meaningless number I made up based on a rough estimate on where I might be in six months if I continued at the same rate I’m currently going. Nearly six months into this somewhat of a mystery illness/condition, I am wondering what the purpose of my life is right now.

I wrote an article on loneliness and never heard back. As I’ve thought about it more, it was potentially one of those times where what I said was too much, too morbid and troublesome. A girl recently described her growth regarding her understanding of vulnerability. She said she had to learn to stop bleeding all over people who never stabbed her. Some people have described the act of writing as bleeding onto the page.

Whatever writing is, it is something I must do to be healthy, to keep living as the person I continue to be. I watched the camp kids play capture the flag tonight, completely amazed by their speed and abilities. It made me physically uncomfortable to watch them, my body somehow interpreting what it would be like to try to run. If I never run again, I think I could be okay with that. It’s a process of being slowly okay with things.