There are welcome times when the darkness lifts and the concrete in your chest and throat softens, cracks appearing and loosening the power and hold it has on you. You can laugh and smile for real, the lines and the light reaching up to your eyes at last. You can dare to make plans and feel that things may be possible.
But the weight and the darkness lurk nonetheless. They battle to regain the upper hand. At times they win and you find that suddenly, for reasons so tiny and trivial that you would be ashamed to say them out loud, they win a battle and you are right down in the depths once more, scrambling around to access some light and some hope.
It’s always there, always inside. Sometimes it stronger and tighter and better organised, sometimes you are. Even in this period of relative ease, I think often of suicide, I look to the future with dread and resignation.
And every day I fight. I fight with myself. I fight to feel normal. I fight to be normal, to keep the tears down, to keep the snappy crankiness at bay, to push down the worst thoughts before they come tumbling out.
It is a daily fight whether I am generally fine or not. It is so tiring that there are times I wonder whether it can possibly be worth it.