It's still slow. I'm me again, more and more often. Me enough to wonder how long Billy has known that I was writing on that guy's website, and to wonder why he never told. Me enough to wonder how I wound up here, in Billy and Crystal's spare room. I think I've asked them about these things, but I can't remember what they told me. Words, spoken words, they don't stay put the way writing does. They shimmer and blur and fade. Writing is easier, to make or to understand.
This is a good day. I have thoughts, make sentences. I eat food. I try to talk, though it's almost too much to process. I can get up and move around. It's amazingly clumsy... I keep forgetting where I put parts of my body... but it's something.
On the bad days... Nothing. I'm just not there. Shattered, scattered... Catatonic. That's what Billy says.
But this is a good day.
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