It starts with something feeling “off.” Just a moment ago, all of me was all here. Now a piece of me is somewhere else, gone missing.
Sometimes I can pinpoint what caused it. Sometimes I can’t. All I know is this: In the place of the whole, integrated woman I was a moment ago, there’s now a part of my soul that feels like the black and white photo of a little girl on a milk carton.
The little girl I’ve lost is somewhere on a one-way train, a train without brakes whose tracks are aiming off a cliff edge. I feel like a bystander watching it all unfold in slow motion, but in truth the little girl on the milk carton is inseparable from me.
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