Things get better. They get worse and worse and worse and they get better. You spend months alone sweating in airless rooms, staring at lonely pages. Your mind becomes a shrieking spiral back into itself. You think god, really, I cannot do this. Really I cannot.
You keep going. You become new. You wriggle out of your skin and you are now pink again and uncalloused. You change your patterns, the way you speak, maybe your hair. You quit jobs. You meet people. You remember but you are not anchored, no not tethered to any hills after you've already climbed and descended them. You keep going, keep moving. One day you find yourself in a new city with a new name, and you are whoever you decide to be. You live. You choose.