Feb. 22nd, 2012

I wanted to do a post whining about how my head fucking hurts, and how it’s February so I feel like I’m a depressed blank wallowing around, waiting for the nothingness to suck me in, and how if I could crawl up into a hole until it fucking went away I would, except I know from experience that doesn’t make the depression go away faster, but then I decided not to because:

Ten years ago today I walked out of my father’s house. You see, I spent my teenage years going through each day by consoling myself I’d be dead before I turned 26. It was a “When I’m 25, I’ll kill myself; so I can make it till then!” situation that got me called crazy more than once a week , but it worked. I’m still here.

I’m not off the hook (familial antecedents tell me so), and I know there will be times I’ll still need to get through every day one by one, but I can look back and tell myself: I did it. Even if “it” was just survive, I did it.

I feel lighter when I realize.

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