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Call that black hole, its negative space, the incredible disappearance of Ruthy Ramirez.
Mostly because I was proud of my depression. I’d read somewhere on the internet that it was a sign of extreme intelligence, and I’d started to consider depression as some type of X-ray vision, with which I could see the world clearly in ways that others could not—that is, not only the skin but also the skeleton.
You know that the trick with pain is to not acknowledge it.
