“My dearest sister, I’ve learned there is a different way. No more surviving, living.”

My dearest sister, I’ve learned there is a different way. No more surviving, living.

I’ve swam and survived in 1000 feet of water. I am drowning in two feet of water.

I imagine what it feels like to wake up and not be mentally ill, to feel what you feel. Even if it was just for an hour.

I forgot who I was, and I allowed myself to be a victim for the first time in my life because of you.

You left the door wide open It became easier And more so than ever Another has filled the space you left vacant.

I don't cry to quit, I don't cry because I'm in pain, I cry to keep going.

“They may have knocked me down, but they did not knock me out. With the fortitude I own and my annoying tenacity, I do not get knocked out.”

I wasn’t going to jump ship, I didn’t know how to swim, or stumble anywhere. I needed his permission.

there are no “proper” or socially acceptable ways to feel desperation. But there is an area of the many shades of grey making up the colossus of desperation that only the people who have ever felt or been privy to its torture will understand the prose in my letter to you my dearest friend.

Before I knew I was a writer, writing became the way I learned to speak again. This is where it started