I celebrate this day every year because I almost didn't live to see it. Every year is one more punch in the face to Depression and a notch in my belt. Friday February 18, 2000 I almost committed suicide. I was ready to do it and if it hadn't been for a dear friend being a bastard and calling the campus hotline on me, I probably would've succeeded in becoming a statistic. (At best I would've gotten the, "Dude a chick died in that dorm room and haunts it to this day" urban legend around campus. They probably would've spelled my name wrong, too.) But that anger was enough to say, "Not tonight. Maybe tomorrow after I've punched Jesse in the face."
One day at a time. One reason at a time. One step at a time until 13 years later you're looking back at it and celebrating one of the oddest anniversaries imaginable.
Today is February 18th, 2013. I am not dead. I'm not depressed. I'm not blinded by that depression and I can see the love I had then and cherish the family I have now. I'm a wife and mother. Friend and soul sister. Creative partner. Sworn nemesis. Auntie in the making. I'm an author celebrating a novel and short story sale (did I mention that? Yeah, I sold a short story that will be appearing in an anthology later in the year)... It's not perfect by any means. Still overweight. Still dealing with the occasional back tweak. Life still deals out little traumas and speed bumps, friends are lost and time rolls on. But this existence is mine. All of it. And I have to say that Life. Is. Good.
It gets better. Hurts mend. Dark turns to light. The soul finds its springtime so new life can grow from even the most scarred soil. It gets better. It gets GREAT. And even the great gets better.
It's been 13 years and I'm still here.
(Fuck yeah. Because I feel a 'fuck yeah' was necessary.)