Reaching for my ankles as I do yoga again, I reach down into myself. I feel my muscles stretch, and the shackles of a crippling depression start to loosen. I’ve been held prisoner in this hell, for what seems like forever. I’m still afraid to completely hope for true freedom, but against any better judgment I still hope.
If you asked me to tell you 100% honestly what I thought my life was like three weeks ago, I would have said I was not alive; I existed. My very best days were shit, and I fought _so_ hard to get them, and they were becoming so infrequent that I was forgetting what it was like to have a “good” day.
You see, I am a complex mishmash of problems. A medical conundrum, my doctor has told me. A wreck and a headcase, what I call myself.
But now I have this glimmer of hope, and it’s wonderful, and terrifying, and overwhelming, and uncertain.
Yet so is everything else in life.