The week before I went to Guadalajara I was as depressed as I’ve ever been. I write that- it’s a lie. The most depressed I’ve ever been was a period almost irretrievable to me now, fifteen years ago. That was when living made absolutely no sense to me. Years went on that way. I tried to describe it to my friend Orit a few weeks ago, but reciting its exhilarating awfulness made it seem less, not more, real. Narrative renders things bearable, and that period was not narrative. The only thing that sticks out as real was that Halloween- I think it was 2009. I knew that everything was ending for me, but everything kept going on, relentless, unbearable. I kept giving myself markers and telling myself I would be allowed to die or give up in some other way after X Y or Z date.
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