When I look across the abyss, the vast cavern filled with memories of my tormented past, I wonder what possessed me to cross it?

I turn around and stare down the hole in awe.

How did I make it? What did I sacrifice to survive it?

I think about the toll I must have paid to have been rewarded with this absurd motivation to stay alive.  

My subconscious built a bridge between my past and my current. I walked along it and found myself years away from my worst days, but still aching at the consequences.

Survival was supposed to be the hard part.

Survival was supposed to be the end.

Survival never ends.

My body shivers at the thought that one day, something horrendous will crawl out of that hole and remind me that survival is not a linear process.

You do not go from being abused, directly to being freed. The line is not straight, but a crude scribble drawn by the hand of a lonely child.

Because even if my abuser has died and long since took a final breath in this world, my wounds go far deeper than a physical presence.

I will not undermine how fortunate I am for knowing my tormentor is dead. Many survivors must move away from their childhood towns, abandon their homes, distance themselves from all traces of the past, just to be certain that person will never make an appearance.

I am lucky. I feel that I am.

I also feel that I am depressed.

I am lucky to feel depressed, because maybe if therapy had not worked, I would not be able to feel anything?

What toll did I pay to make it to today? What of my soul did I sacrifice to live a normal life?

Or am I still paying my debts off? Are my tears enough to keep me here another few years?

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