So where should I start?

It may seem wonky. All over the place. A thousand thoughts and a million things I want to say, pouring out in a flow, and I don't seem to find the head of the thread.

It's messy. It's foggy.

For the last few days, I've been going through my previous posts and wondering, Did I really write all of that?

I found solace in writing. So why did I drift away just like that?

There was this one post, or maybe a comment, where I remember thinking, Why isn't the author commenting? Why should I include them in voting?

I was a curator then.

And now I look back and think… why? What? How?

Funny, isn't it?

The phase you go through. The person you are at one point in your life. The certainty with which you look at someone else's actions, only to find yourself standing in almost the exact same place someday.

Every action of yours can become questionable at some point.

I didn't write for months. I didn't even upvote for weeks at a stretch.

So what am I supposed to make of that?

Was I too sick?

Was I too busy?

No.

I wasn't.

I was just not in that frame of mind.

There was a time when things started making lesser and lesser sense. Everything became fogged out, hazed out. I could sit and scroll idly for hours, but somehow didn't have the energy to press that tiny little upvote button.

Does that even make sense?

I don't know.

Do I play the victim?

No. Not at all.

Am I a victim of something called living?

Maybe.

Maybe sometimes life doesn't have to completely fall apart for you to lose your sense of direction. Maybe you can still be doing everything you're supposed to do while something inside you quietly switches off.

I still pray.

Four times a day, most days.

But do I feel closer to God?

I don't know.

And maybe that's another question I don't have an answer to.

Over time, I've developed a strange mechanism of filtering things out. Some traumatic events teach your brain to be selective. I don't like something? I'll try to forget it.

I'll scroll.

And scroll.

And scroll some more.

Until I fall asleep.

It sounds ridiculous when I write it down.

But perhaps that's the point of writing. Things that remain blurry in your head sometimes become visible when you put them into words.

Then there is my body.

I don't have much control over it these days.

It aches. It pains. It complains. It does whatever it wants, whenever it wants.

And I can't really negotiate with it.

On good days, I'm still under the haze.

The brain fog is the second real bitch.

The first one, obviously, is this autoimmune condition.

And then there is this question I keep coming back to.

They say good girls get autoimmune diseases.

Do they?

Is there really a connection between all the things we suppress, all the things we carry, all the times we say it's okay when it isn't?

Did something happen to me that woke up the sleeping lion inside my genes?

Or am I just being overdramatic?

And, more importantly…

Am I even the good girl?

See?

A thousand thoughts.

No head of the thread.

Maybe I don't need one.

Maybe I just need to start writing again.

I don't even remember all the basic codes anymore. I have forgotten so much of how I used to put a post together. I'll probably Google half of it before I finally hit publish, if I actually get that far.

But this is a start.

Yes.

A start.

I don't know for how long.

I don't know if I'll write every day, every week, or disappear again for months.

I don't know if the words will come as easily as they once did.

I don't even know if the woman who wrote those old posts is still somewhere inside me.

But I know I want to find her.

Because I want to write again.

I miss this world.

And perhaps, after all this time, that's the only thought that doesn't feel foggy at all.

I want to be a part of it again.