ABOUT TWO YEARS into my big sky life, a friend expressed great concern for my mental and physical well-being. She was worried I wouldn’t survive the stress of living in a place that appeared to be killing me and strongly recommended that I keep a personal journal in the hope that it would serve as a healthy outlet for my compounding failures and compressed emotions. To keep her suggestion on the lighter side, she jokingly added, “Who knows? You might even write a book about it.”
The joke was on me because, as evidenced by what you’re now reading, she was right - even if it did take more than a decade of time and space for the wounds to scar over enough for me to see the comedy in the situation, let alone write about it.
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