Every morning, however she feels, she packs a modest lunch from home, because she has learned that the ritual discipline of small practicalities builds, bit by bit, the quality of life she had no hope for when she was out there, her life on fire, out of control. She trusts people slowly now, especially men, but she is more sure of the ones who make it through, open and real with them. Sometimes she is gripped with sudden residual dread and she has to remind herself that danger is less likely now, that some worries no longer apply, however real the phantom grip clawing at her chest. Even if there is money and someone invites her for lunch out, she almost always politely declines. A humble lunch, packed herself, is a breath of wellness in her day. It gives her just a little more pride. And hope.
Hello, friends. I hope you're well.