You are fine.
Even when you believe you are broken.
Even when all you can taste is the fear that you will never go back to normal again. Regardless of whether that was normal in the first place.
Even when you can see yourself as if you were a different person.
Even when you are afraid to talk to anyone. Because you think you'll bother them. Because you don't know how to get the words out. Because you don't know what's wrong or who you've become. Because in some way you've always felt that you've been broken.
Even when it comes upon you suddenly without warning. And then twenty minutes later you are fine, you are better even. That this, whatever it is, is only something temporary, a kiss upon a scratch. Something that will fade quickly with time. Despite evidence that it's been festering for a while.
Even though every time you open you mouth to speak, place fingers to the keys to type, that you are lying. That in the end you know nothing. Nothing at all in why things are now this way and have no words or anything to help explain why.
