Think of a happy memory.

I was sitting in the airport, the day I got home from Europe. I looked up and saw my little sister for the first time in months. The last time I’d seen her, her hair had been bright red – now the color was fading. She walked towards me, and she was whole and alive and real and solid and she was happy that I was home. She gave me a hug and she just held me for a minute. I was so completely fucking spent.

She was the reason I came home. I ran away from home because I didn’t know what else to do.

She told me that she wanted me to come home by Thanksgiving. She knew I was struggling, she warned me not to spend too much time looking into the dark because – well, because “it can be damaging even to look.” She warned me and I didn’t listen. I went anyway, I was a long way from home and I didn’t take care of myself and I ended up lost, I was emotionally devastated, I was so sick.

I could do for her what I could not do for myself. She told me that she loved me and that she wanted me to come home and so I did. I found the strength. I bought a return ticket. I went home. It was fucking miserable the entire time, but I did it. I did it for her, I did it for everyone else that I loved.

There were no shortcuts on the way back. It was a long journey. It took a lot out of me. It will always take a lot out of me, I think. I was so tired.

But I got there, and she was there, and she just held me, and she said “welcome back,” and in that moment I felt like everything was going to be alright again. And I then tried to piece myself back together. One day at a time.

One foot in front of the other in front of the other.

Over and over again.