My friends and family think I’m very brave to be here, to move to India, a place I’ve never been, a country I don’t know, on the other side of the world. What they don’t know is how brave it would have been not to be here at all.
My Multiple Sclerosis diagnosis came during the Writers’ Strike and just before Christmas. I was sad all of the time. Prone to tears for no discernible reason and fragile beyond belief. I didn’t know whether I was depressed as a result of the MS or just heart-broken by the sad news.
In an instant, I became too big for my life in LA and too small for it at the same time. I was clumsy and invisible, suffocating and alone, plagued by irony and pain… at a loss for everything. I felt like “scab” writers, desperate for ratings, were writing the story of my life. How long could it be before I got amnesia or met an unknown evil twin?