In 2013 my life was turned upside down. Twice.
The story begins with a short letter in a plain envelope. I had visited my local clinic in London a few days before; the letter was from my doctor, suspecting cancer.
For the next eight weeks I faced the four walls of my flat alone, staring at the prospect of an early end. A thousand hours passed second by second, punctuated with appointments to the hospital, until I received another letter that told me that my body had not betrayed me.
Perhaps I should have gone back to normal life like nothing had happened. But eight weeks is a long time to be believing you are dying, and it did funny things to my head. Amidst the mental and emotional chaos, the lines dissolved between reality and dreams, between logic and madness — walls that under stress showed themselves to be flimsy and unimportant.
I couldn’t go back to normal life. I quit my job, started my first company, and met good people who taught me good lessons and not-so-good people who, in their way, also taught me good (albeit painful) lessons.
My story is thus a tale of two parts: the first about how my life was turned upside down by a doctor’s letter, and how, for eight weeks, my reality turned into madness. The second part begins in similar fashion: a doctor’s letter that turns my life upside down once more, but not to where I was before. This part is about how I turn my madness into reality.