The Thing with Feathers

Happy belated New Year, everyone. I know I’ve been absent for quite a while; the end of my semester got really busy. It turned out well, though. I’m proud.

I’m proud of something else, too, and that would be my progress with my own mental health. I’ve been doing really well lately. And I’ve realized something, too. Discovered something, rather. Something I’ve never let myself become acquainted with before.

No, not alcohol.

Hope.

In an earlier post, I compared my mental illness to a corvid, always with scaly talons digging into their perch (my shoulder) and inky black eyes watching my every move. To continue the bird symbolism, my hope for my own future is a fledgeling right now.

I’m keeping it from leaping off because I’m afraid it might fall and die.

At least, however, I’m keeping it alive.

I’ve never allowed myself to have hope about the future, to have hope that things wouldn’t always be the way they were for me. But somehow, as things have gotten better, I’ve started looking up, so to speak.

And I’m doing well. I haven’t felt this good about my life in years. Things are going great for me–relationships with others, my classes, my lack of psychotic breaks lately–and I have no immediate reason to believe this will change. And even if they do, I’ve already come to the realization that misery really can be only temporary, and that is a realization that I hope will stick with me.

Who knows, maybe my new outlook on life will grow and take wing.

I know that my mental illness will always be my dark companion, but I can ignore it now and focus on my future.

New year.

New attitude.

Yeah, things are looking pretty good.