Late July hits me like a series of blows in a mismatched prize fight — me on the ropes, bruised, bleeding, and getting clobbered. The shock denial, the fear of being moved to another prison far away, the anniversary of my mother’s death, the collapse of my marriage, and the sudden and casual cruelty coming through the phone all land before I can brace. The synchronicities that once steadied me still flicker at the edges, but they’re drowned out by fear, grief, and the sense that staying in the current has capsized my boat and I’m sinking fast. Bedford shifts from retreat to crucible; the unit feels hostile, the waiting unbearable, the negativity suffocating. I move through the days in a haze of prayer, anger, exhaustion, and a despair so heavy it feels physical, fighting to keep any hold on myself while my mind keeps slipping toward the edge. Conversations with the few people who love me offer brief flashes of relief, but the days are thick with sorrow, confusion, and the feeling of being abandoned by almost everyone I counted on. This is the stretch where I am losing my grip, where faith flickers, where the hits come too fast to absorb, and where holding on becomes its own act of survival.