Oh Isobel. When you died, straight away I decided that I never wanted anyone to be able to say that you ruined my life; that your impact on me was overwhelmingly negative. This meant I had to try. I had to get up, get dressed, go out. I had to exercise. I had to see people. I had to write, to talk, to connect. I had to function, even when the effort level required felt like more than I could bear. Some things are easier now, some things are still hard, some are still impossibly hard. But still I am trying.
I can’t promise you that I will always appreciate the huge gift of simply being alive. I can’t promise that I will always be happy or kind or loving. I can’t promise that at any given moment, someone observing wouldn’t see me struggling, flailing, failing. But I can promise you that I will always try.