I'm writing this a bit late, as you've probably noticed it's not July 4th anymore. But I have a very good reason for this. You see I have PTSD and no I'm not a veteran. There's this stigma that PTSD is a veteran's illness and that others don't have the right to claim it. At least that has been my experience. People seem to try and either downplay mental illness or gatekeep it as though it's meant only for a select few. Forgive my french but that's hogwash.
"Hi! You probably don't know me and I for sure don't know you yet. So let me introduce myself. My name is Alora and I'm probably the protagonist of this story. I don't really know for sure, as well, Krysta hasn't wrote it yet. It's how her brain works. Creative process and all that. The thing is while I live in her brain, she's given me life before in a past story. That story kind of vanished or at least she can't find it now. I know she looked. A bit half heartedly but she did look. Not enough to actually plug in her old hard drive to see if it was on there. Let's not be too hard on her, she was having a migraine at the time. Between you and me she also had some stomach issues but she didn't want me to tell ya that. Now I know that's probably hurting your brain a bit right now. Or hell, maybe it's not but let's get something out of the way right now. The 'forth wall' doesn't really exist for me. I know I'm a character in a story. Krysta knows that I know I'm a character in a story. It's our relationship. I give her motivation, inspiration and content. She gives me life. It's a nice little symbiotic relationship that you're now a part of! Yeah, yeah I know, nobody asked you if it was alright for me to take up residence in your brain. Don't worry I don't plan on mucking with anything. Not that I really could anyway. See I can't do anything that you don't allow me to do. So I'm perfectly safe and comfortable in your little brain. Well, I could be a bit more comfortable if you'd imagine me sitting on a nice red leather chair, like from one of those old detective movies. You know the ones with the metal buttons as accents and that wonderful scent of tobacco and old book smell permanently saturated into the leather."
My will isn't strong. It isn't powerful. It's just always there. My will is a thread. Barely keeping me alive. But that's all that's needed. There's no celebration when you beat depression. There's no medal. No reward. You just go back to living. All you get from fighting depression is pain and scars. There isn't a silver lining. You don't come out stronger. You come out different. Broken, damaged, weakened. You might heal. You might not. No one cares except, sometimes, those close to you. There's no fame or glory for winning. You just get to live. But that doesn't change the fact that willpower isn't a cable. It's a thread. Unbreakable. Invincible thread.