Happily Breathing
October 17th. I remember October 17th. It was a Saturday night. The weather was good. My brothers had insisted on taking me to a poetry slam, so I sat for an hour in the melancholy ambiance of aspiring poets until I received permission to leave. Meanwhile the sweetest girl you ever knew put the finishing touches on a surprise party she realized too late I didn’t want. I came home to a full house, ate a taco, snapped at my brother in front of all my friends, gave out some hugs and a “thank you for coming,” then snuck away to my room to cry. That’s when I knew—alone in a dark corner with the sound of dear friends and family on the other side of the door—that’s when I knew I wanted to die. I don't always say it, and I don't always show it, but I am truly grateful for every breath I have ever breathed since that day two years ago. Today I am not only breathing, but happy about it too. Life is so good, whether I deserve it or not. Recently, I was reminded of a...