Recovery is not about happiness. That’s tough to swallow. When you’re depressed or in the middle of a depressive episode all you beg for is a crumb of happiness like if you just get a taste you swear you can get your shit together. But that’s not recovery, that’s not getting better, that’s not realistic. It is about the small victories. I got out of bed. I got out of bed and did not think about dying. I had lunch. I had lunch and didn’t feel terrible about it. I had a two minute conversation and got through it. I had a conversation and did not count the seconds, I heard them. I thought about him and almost cried. I thought about him but then my lunch break ended. I keep my mind occupied, far too occupied to remember I have ridiculous reasons to be sad over. The medication keeps me at bay. Sometimes I take more than I am suppose to, I get that from my dad. If my dad is three years sober maybe that’s proof I’ll be okay. I will be okay. I have time to get my shit together. God, please, just don’t waste it. Please don’t fall back into the hole. I know you have to live with the depression, a freeloading asshole but you are in charge.