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The start of the story

I know you want to know my story. You’re curious, you’re only human. I’m not sure how many times I have to say it: this isn’t about me.

But I get it. Reader, you seem trustworthy. You’re not like everyone else. You’re the type that picks up on the little things. So, as to not detract from the story, I will momentarily indulge your curiosity.

In order to be here with you now, I unraveled my entire life. The whole persona I had built for decades. I peeled back each layer, like summer skin, the rind of a painful, emotional fruit. Each layer was harder than the next. Piercing the surface and letting vulnerability ooze and spill across every part of my life. The tears. The nights alone. The reconciliations, the lost promises of a life not really lived. Trust me, I lost more than that. It was a process. I would become hardened, retreat back into my comfortable shell. Then every few months I would be reminded of what I was doing this all for.

I’m not going to lie to you. On numerous occasions, I let go. I let the thoughts seep into my brain – it starts innocent with “What if I wasn’t here tomorrow?” Then it progresses. “What would I say if I wrote a note?” “Who would be the one to find my body?” I am lucky enough to say I don’t know how it ends.

On a side note – Please know that if my depression ever does end my life, I didn’t just give in. I fought. I fought harder than you can imagine. And I hope that the fighting never stops. But if it does, please don’t call me a coward. I’m the strongest person you know. Well, you don’t know me. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But like I said, you seem like the perceptive type.

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