So you survived.

It’s been nearly 5 years since you crawled into that basement expecting to die.

You’re 26 now (an age you swore you’d never see). You’ve met some cool new people over the past 5 years. You graduated college, got a job, and moved into your own apartment. You adopted a cat, and she’s become your best friend. You’re off all those meds now, and you feel stable, comfortable even. You haven’t self-harmed in 3 years. Your parents are finally proud of you.

You’re still lonely (and getting lonelier with each passing year). You’ve lost some old friends, due to distance or death. You had a mental breakdown and had to withdraw from a Master’s program. You’ve yet to have a long-lasting relationship, and are still terrified of opening up to other people. You haven’t gone to the beach or pool in years due to the scars covering your shoulders. Your sister’s earlier episodes have manifested into full-blown schizophrenia, though she refuses to admit it let alone seek treatment, which is putting an awful strain on your parents.

There are still weeks, even months, that dysthymia and depression cloud nearly every waking moment. They’re old ghosts that will likely haunt you ’til your end.

But there are also weeks, and yes, even months, that the Sun shines through, and you’re happy. And you’re happy. You’re happy. Happy. Five years ago, that was a word that only existed in seemingly foreign, nearly forgotten memories.

You still have ghosts in your past and monsters in your present. But your heart is a fist that continues to beat, to fight, to live.

You lived, and I am so fucking proud of you.