I’m sitting in the front row of the brass choir at Emmaus Moravian Church right now. I’m trying to understand the arcane combination of keystrokes one must use to be able to type a blogpost via phone, I’m trying to understand why my autocorrect has suddenly apparently forgotten everything it’s learned about my writing patterns, and I’m trying to analyze my current feelings.

The sun is coming in the windows on one side of the sanctuary. It’s warm, just enough that a layered t-shirt makes the weather feel like early spring rather than late fall. It feels familiar. I feel somewhat like how I would at Christ Church, growing up, years ago. But it’s a slippery feeling.

I can’t quite pinpoint what it reminds me of, or why or how. I don’t know if it’s a good feeling or a bad. I don’t know how I feel about not knowing that, or how I want it to resolve. It’s familiar, I can almost touch it, but I can’t and I can’t even bring it closer.

I’ll be honest: it’s freaking me out a little.

I don’t know if this quite solid resurgence of ineffable yet intensely familiar feeling means that the fog is lifting, or if I’m going even more haywire.

I know two things. One is that I should probably find a good therapist who I should probably see with my husband. And the second is that I should probably call the psychiatrist tomorrow to discuss this new medication even though it’s only been a week so far.

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