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Composing the story of my attempted suicide made today a better day. Strange that it would, but it did. I had this idea for a story yesterday, and I began writing it last night after I did my blog post. I thought about it off and on throughout the day, trying to work out some of the particulars, and added a few more paragraphs to it tonight. It is a piece of fiction, and it begins with me trying to kill myself. I think it’s helping to liberate me.

I’m realizing more and more how much of myself I have allowed to be judged and shamed, and not always only by me. Some of my dearest friends have hoped for me to change. Always for my own benefit; for my own happiness. But still, people who loved me wished me to be different than I was. Than I still am.

I bought into this idea that I was Depressed and suffered from a mental illness for a long time. I bought into the idea that I had something to overcome, something to recover from. What if this is just the way I experience the world? What if this is just the way I was meant to experience the world? What if the very thing that has caused me so much suffering, is the greatest gift I could offer?

I want my heart. I think I am beginning to uncover it.

It’s not about who I want to be anymore. It’s about who I am. It’s about the person I’ve always been. It’s about knowing her and loving her. I have misunderstood her for way too long. I have sided with other people against her over and over again. Now I stand with her. Now I stand as her.

And I am proud.