Dissolving into the universe to wake up disoriented and far from home is just the most outwardly visible part of the exhausting journey I’ve been taking each month. When it works, I get to just be, for a few weeks, in the world where I imagine that most people regularly reside with solidity and the possibility of stillness. But depression starts settling back in, slowly, silently, persistently. The initial signs are subtle, but before long the accumulated weight of it is unmistakable. Now things are starting to go undone and come undone; I’m disappearing into my own fog, with dread and terror piling on fast. I’ll be back on the train for another infusion soon, because maybe I can still be found and rescued again. I’m trying to hold on to that hope, despite my fear and self-recrimination about having tried to build a life on a foundation of quicksand. And I’m tired out from how far I have to go just to try to stay.