Coming Home

Eleven months after my relapse into hell, I awoke at 4:30 A.M. on the second day of August. It was a Monday. The house was silent, my head was foggy and I was not sure how or when the first day had slipped into the second. The bed was wet with sweat. My brain was as fragile as an embryo, and my bowels kept me close to the toilet. I must have drunk five liters of water. I remember that well, always having lots of water next to my bed.