Nightmares every night, March was a bit easier, albeit still unhappy. I never expected to return at all (or so soon), and felt uneasy, uncomfortable, out of place. Being home was beneficial, (I know now in hindsight), able to confront people and things I had always been afraid to confront—when pushed over the edge, the anger was not directed inward as before, but at those responsible.

Falling asleep near dawn and sleeping most of the day, I couldn’t concentrate on my shattered heart or torn soul, as I had to finish my thesis: a week late with the preliminary draft. At night as I tried to sleep, I replayed my months in Boulder, a terrible time with intoxicants, self hate and overall destruction.

Of the three boxes of CDs I mailed myself from Denver, the one with my favorite albums went missing, the labels returned (probably ripped off by some postal person). It was also a hopefully time, dedicating myself to the thesis, and being in a familiar place, knowing how much I’d changed. Also, I began to stop focusing my essential essence to the writing, instead focusing on the one thing I had always neglected: myself.

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