As I read fellow bloggers posts last night (yup, my little blog is up little more than a week and I already count myself among you esteemed folks) “survivor” popped up quite a bit. “Survivor” blinks at me, asks me to look at it, asks me to slide its term into my brain, let it roll around then stretch out and fire up the synapses. Am I a survivor? Of my own demons, sure. I have lost love to depression but those men aren’t dead. (Picturing a band of good Samaritans getting rid of exes in delightfully colorful ways does not count.) My family are the survivors, my friends. They are the ones who stayed with me while I lost my mind, helped me reign whatever was left back in. They dealt with the very real possibility they could lose me. I’ve never thought of it like that before. If my loved ones did the things I have done I would be terrified for them, sick with worry of finding out they had hurt themselves, finding out they had ended what they felt was a tortured life. Their lives are valuable, they are good people, I cannot fathom losing any of them. There would be a hole in my universe. There would be endless thoughts of what did I miss, what could I have done better, what did I not say? I did not complete suicide, I just fucking kept breathing. Why can I imagine the devastation of losing one of them but it baffles me anyone would think of me like that? They do, though. For whatever reason they stay by my side, they survive my demons, they live with the fear they could lose me during one of my dark times. What a shit I am.
I am a fighter. When all I wanted to do was die I fought to live for these loved ones. This, they deserve. For they are the survivors.
Keep fighting, friends.