It occurs to me, as my birthday nears, that this past year deserves a lot of reflection.  I’ve made hard choices, survived tricky situations, made friends and cut ties with enemies, accepted myself, revealed myself.  In short, I stood up for myself.  I was scared the entire time.  But I survived another year.

And now, I’m really proud of the work I’ve done.  I have a warm apartment, honorable friends, a sweet kitten, a job, and a boyfriend who would do anything for me.

I’m giddy with excitement.  Those words above are not a depressive’s in the throws of it.  Could it be, I’m getting better?  I mean, I feel better.  I’m interested in going out, and I’m once more vocalizing my needs to Sam.  The winter’s coming, but I’m not minding that today.  I’m not minding anything.  Things feel good.  The world feels right.  I want to cry, and for once, it’s not out of grief.  I feel the desire to celebrate.

A little voice whispers, don’t trust it.  Today, I’m not listening.  The days are passing, and I’m maintaining stability.  I have to trust it, trust myself, trust my doctors.  This time might be different.