March, the twentieth. It's been three years already.

Thinking about love when I cannot even spell my name sounds like the lesser version of crying out loud after hitting my forehead against the pillow, pretending that life ain't as hard as it seems at the moment.

I've tried lowering the dose of my antidepressants, but I fear I might fall into the endless loop of despair and angst that follows the sad and lonely path of recovery. I would like to enjoy things without having to think about it, I would like to enjoy life without having to put my mind into the mindset of "getting to enjoy life" because I feel it is so fake, it is so unreal. It feels as if I did not actually wanted to be alive and I was just faking my devotion for life and everything that happens while we're awake.

Living by the "fake it, 'til you make it" has been an unusually effective solution to not feeling ready. I've faced uncertainty by pretending not to be scared. 

Your face has been popping up in my dreams lately, I've stumbled upon your sweet embrace and the memories of your smile. I may never see you again, but in my dreams, I feel like I can hold you.