These damn titles stress me out

Okay, so. I’m going to be okay. I don’t know how, and I don’t know when, and that’s frustrating. But knowing that I will survive this and be better for it is. I don’t know what it is, exactly. It may be hope? I’m so braintrained against it, always bracing for the next shitty thing because other shitty things always happen and I can’t help but learn from experience.

And yet.

There’s a spark, there’s an ember, there’s a glow, there’s a sparkle, there’s still life in there. My soul is screaming at me to do the work and get through the healing, and I feel I’m in the middle of that now. I feel as if I’m teetering on a precipice and I’m either going to fly and be free or slip delicately to a violent death. I’m believing in the fly and be free route because the other is just the depression talking. It used to fool me into believing its thoughts were my reality and truth, but I know better now. My soul is my reality and my truth and the sacred place from which I live.

So fuck you, depression. I’m onto you.