I wonder what my life would be like right now if I hadn't kept on fighting.
I would probably be growing colder by the minute, rigor mortis of the soul setting in rapidly.
There would have been more therapist, I'm sure. More medicine prescribed.
Definitely lots of yelling and tons of tears.
Sleepless nights and dreaded days.
Wanting, grasping, all in vain for things to be the way they used to be. That sometime in the abyss of my memory there was a day or were days of happiness.
But those moments that I would desperately be trying to attain , whether real or imagined, must come from somewhere, right?
And that somewhere, that something, someone, must have been my saving grace.
I fought for something and it took years of scratching and tugging, hair pulling and bite marks and all sorts of weapons like words, or self-doubt, tough criticism, bringing up bad things of the past and the worst one, unforgiving ways.
It took small instances of words like God and the cross and love to keep my desires to live alive.
It's so true what they say, Jesus is always with us, especially in those moments where we can't see Him.