I am still alive.

We've all been to that place. That place where your worst nightmares seem to be coming true all at the same time. You cry tears from somewhere deep inside of you that you didn't even know existed, and the pain of what's just transpired is so real and heavy and you're sure you're going to die.

But you don't.

A day goes by and then two and then three, and by some miracle, you are still alive.

You stop fretting and you start letting go. Your face softens, you smile again. You let yourself entertain thoughts of a new future in your head. "I can go anywhere," you think. "I can be anything."

It hurts, of course it hurts, and the thought of it will probably always send a twinge straight to your heart. But you survived. You lived.

It's been one week, and I am still alive.

To my home...

We recently moved out of what I consider my one and only, real home. It happened so slowly and so quickly all at the same time. It's difficult to accept that there is someone else living there, where I lived for so long. The creaks in the floor and lock of the basement door and the clink of that little metal tag on the meter outside my bedroom window...all new sounds to them, but so old and comforting to me. Chapters of my life seem to be closing all around me these days, chapters that I'm not yet ready to close...chapters I hoped would never end. This is one of those chapters. So here's to my home, which sheltered me as I grew into the person I am today. 3319, you saw my tears and you heard my laughter and you made me feel safe. Thank you for being so good to me.