I remember who and what I am, the world inside my head.

A focus on the small things, pleasures that are cheap or free, readily accessible, nurturing and so on. Ways to avoid greater suffering.

And still the depression that comes with a looming sense of doom and the inevitability of a sudden and total collapse.

I fall into further despair.

I did nothing, yet was surprised when nothing happened.

Vanity has kept me in good shape.

I turn to my body, work to lose fat, gain muscle, to feel better, look better, to be loved and live longer and well.

A way to succeed without money.

I feel great, which is good, right?

A way to get through the terror.

Then one morning, out of nowhere, I realized it'd been a long time since I'd gotten high, and months since I'd even thought about buying. Yet in the interim food, music, sex, movies, cycling, even chores, it all felt good enough, and I was happy.

I looked back at a life I barely knew and could explain to no one, and kept it to myself.

I reflect on my privilege and it shames me that all I’ve done with it is take the easy road to a difficult time.

But it also shames me – does it? – that all I wanted to do was nothing, to potter about and fritter away my hours, to feel alive, to love and be loved.

And in this I succeeded.

I imagined I was someone else.

Hours passed in this way.

Years.

By most accounts it was already too late to make another life, but I did what needed to be done, and it happened.

It was weak, and it was wonky, but it was different to what came before, and most of all, most especially, it was mine, and I'd live it until the time came for a new one.