This is what I'm learning: being alive is not always the brief exhilaration than comes with the right kind of remembrance or the real kind of letting go. Something other than that is not a substitute.

Sometimes it's sitting here with cold hands and an empty stomach because there is no food in this drafty house. Still, you can live and know that that is not your fault.

Sometimes it's finding a journal of yours from when you were seven years old and thinking, "this child was in agony" and wondering how it was that no one saw it, and wishing you could hold her and tell her it's okay, it's okay, it's not her fault, she won't always be this alone, don't listen to the people who keep telling you you're not brave, honey, because you are, I swear you are. Still, you can live and be proud that you made it.

Sometimes it's breaking down after reading a letter to the suicidal because you may forget about it sometimes, but there's still been a part of you that wants to die for as long as you can remember and when something touches that, it breaks you. It breaks you every time. Still, you can live and believe that whether or not you kill yourself is your decision, that you can always choose not to.

Sometimes it's everything you do coming out wrong and nothing being the way you expected it to be, and knowing that you're weak, and knowing that you can be cruel even when you want to be kind. Still, you can live and you can do things anyway.

I'm alive, and it hurts. That's okay. Pain is only a precursor, just like joy is only a precursor and there will always be other things I'm not ready for. I'm never ready for how wonderful things can be, but still it comes. For years, I've been counting days since one--
"If I had done it then, I would have missed this."
"If I had done it then, I would have..."
I know that I will say that every day for the rest of my life. I know that I am never alone anymore. I don't ask for anything else.