For eight months now, I’ve been taking the medication—someday I’ll gather the courage to share how it all came to light and what life was like without it. Oh no, this isn’t about some run-of-the-mill depression. By month eight, I realized life had stabilized, everything around me smoothing out despite the inevitable ups and downs.

So smooth – like you’re writing text in AI – hysterical, disjointed, with confusing interjections, and AI gives you a nice polished result… yeah, no other way to put it.

In the spring, I had to update my prescription. The medicine I was given in Canada was different from the one I had in Russia. At first, I noticed I could draw even more air into my lungs than before, breathing louder somehow. The world bloomed, scents returning—my sense of smell had faded after COVID.

Then, the next day, we took the kayaks out. We paddled into a cove just as every boat and yacht was heading back to shore.

I screamed that we were going anyway. A fury woke in me! Boundaries blurred: where was danger, where should I hesitate, where freeze, where bolt? We pushed forward—the wind gusted, then began ripping the paddle from my hands. Madness took over—this was the “adventure.” My shoulders nearly dislocated from the force. I almost made a break for my lighthouse again, the one ringed by triple currents, reefs, uneven seabed. Left everyone behind—who was there, who was with me, none of it mattered. Only I mattered. The kayak rocked, waves sloshing inside, but stubbornness and experience and some wild, savage strength from nowhere—no concrete wall ahead could’ve stopped me. Danger… mmm… my favorite.

But oh, how deeply I could breathe. How much air I could hold at once.

Now what? I write calm articles. I take calm walks. I listen to calm jazz—the background kind, for expensive restaurants. I drive calmly and sleep a calm sleep. Sometimes I snore, mouth gaping wide – maybe dreaming of all that air I could once gulp down. James gently closes my mouth at night and teases me in the mornings, mimicking the sound.

My doctor calls this “the life of a normal person.” I call it the dullest existence imaginable. So for now, I replay past adventures, reliving them in quiet astonishment, as if they belonged to someone else entirely.

What’s the point of all this? Just… calmness, I guess.

Tra-la-la… a smooth jazz wave. Tra-la-la… a soft pink dress and a mature, meaningful look.

What would you choose?