this isn’t the truth I’ve been trained to give you but – but, it ripens each day in my gut and – i haven’t lived this long to become a liar.
it gets harder.
you thought that the days you saw death in your own eyes were the worst;
and you’re wrong. it’s the slow evenings, where you sit in companionable silence with your memories on the mantelpiece, huddled along the arm of your favourite chair. they seethe and bubble, and leave your bones rattling under your flesh, and you’re strong enough not to fall apart.
this is recovery. this is the part where you become a survivor.
the hardest part is living.
if you needed a reason to put misery aside for a night, let this be it.