Two months ago I was at an archaeological exhibit in school and I started crying.
I was alone, surrounded by artifacts that have been around for centuries and millennia: earthenware, ceramics, and rocks thought to be extraterrestrial materials, uncovered ninety years ago. I remember how they were illuminated by fluorescent lights, glowing as though they really were otherworldly and magical. I remember the way they blurred together when the tears came, desperate and feverish.
All of them, I thought, matter more than I can ever hope to. All of them will outlast me.
It was a nice reminder of my insignificance in the larger scope of things, and even on the ground I walk. I felt more impermanent, more temporary, than ever.
The seven months that have passed since I last wrote on here have been tough. Let's just say I really thought I wouldn't make it this time.
But by some cosmic force, I held on. There were journal entries, the beach, sad songs, sad songs that sound like '90s discotheques, and something a total stranger said on the internet: Hopefully, over time, you can learn how to care for yourself in safer, more loving ways.
And friends, and family, and realizing that saying it out loud, physically, person to person, made a difference.
I'm writing a lot and I'm experiencing things I wanted so badly to live for. I'm not actively destroying my own body, and the parts of it I thought I'd destroyed are healing. I want to get better. I'm getting better.
I'm still here, somehow.
