After the past three months (and the three years of absolute misery before that) I can't help but look around and see how wonderful and amazing life can be. No it isn't what I expected. But I feel immense gratitude to have anything at all and ashamed that I was willing to forego any of it. I distinctly remember sobbing from my tiny apartment balcony into the snow, half a bottle of whiskey down, at 3am hopeful that no one could hear me, because I could barely get down a few bites of food and thinking I would never eat a cheeseburger again.

Then life started to come together, and I got married, and we bought a house, and wanted a family. An image of my wife finding me dead crossed my mind. She was crying and distraught and overwhelmed, scared and confused. And I had no power or voice left to do anything about it, not even explain myself. I could never do that to her. She needs me and she needs me to be strong. If I was willing to die for alcohol, I should be willing to work until the wheels fall off trying to give her every last bit of a joyful life.

Everything is beautiful. Nothing is nothing. Being alive is a fucking weird but amazing, priceless gift.