My Love, My Lost City.

A long time ago, but more like it was five years ago, I met you. I don't remember how I met you. How I got to you. There's no memory of it.
Why? Well, there was a term the neuropsychologist I was seeing used. Irony is I can't remember it. Oh, the sweet irony.

I didn't like her. She was a nice person but she was more interested in telling me about the plight of girls at Albany High and how they spread rumors about each other and wasn't I glad that I didn't deal with that?

One minute I was fine, and then fear started to build. In the office I knew I would die. If I didn't get out I would die. I was deaf to everything but the high-pressure hum in my ears like a jet plane about to take off. I exploded out of the Victorian and rocketed down the steps to the street below. Safety? Not there. It wasn't the office that would kill me. It could be anything. Nothing but thoughts of fear and death and the End of Times came to mind.
It was too much.
And the fear and the panic and the terror, that's why I don't remember how I got there.
To end up in a place, just like that.

I found the Lost City of Letters, myself equally lost.

Five years later, I'm in a better place. The Lost City of Letters is not so lost any more. The neuropsychologist's card I so carefully taped under my mousepad ("In case of emergency," she told me) was long shredded to pieces. The other psychologist I saw, that card also became confetti. Perhaps it was unwise to do so, but it seemed like the right way to move on.