All right.

Everyone breathe, sit down, and buckle up.

I've got a lot of explaining to do and I know it.

I'm going to be extremely blunt: less than a year ago, I wanted to die.

Yes, I was suicidal. I was Depressed. I hated my life and hated myself for hating my life.

It was entirely all-consuming, and it eventually ripped apart the only joy I had left in life: writing.

Okay, blunt part over.

I'm really sorry I haven't been updating. I realize that I've been skittish, never quite finished a story, disappeared for months at a time, and that it probably seems like I'd quit altogether. I swear to you, hear and now, I haven't. For some time now, I've wondered if I should just delete my account and start over. It seemed like the only thing that would work.

But, then, I realized something.

I was tired of starting over. Of quitting. I've spent the last five years trapped in my own personalized Hell while I struggled with MDD (Major Depressive Disorder) and suicidal thoughts. I thought I was dramatic and needed to get myself together. I put myself down and told myself other people had it worse. I lived in complete and utter denial for a few years. I wrote and read like a madman; trying to escape reality.

Then I finally lost. I broke down under the weight of trying to hold myself together and called my sister. I told her how I felt, she spoke to my family for me, and we spent the next half a year tip-toeing around trying to find a way to help me.

My gynecologist put me on some mild medicine to help with my mood swing, and we all hoped that I would be fine with that. That it was just my hormones wreaking havoc on me.

A few months later, I dropped out of my first semester of college without a word and just about shut down. I worked on autopilot and was absolutely miserable. I wanted to write. I wanted so desperately to fall back into the worlds I'd created. I felt like I was letting all of you down by not updating.

Eventually, I lost the will to care.

My wonderful mother saw through every fake "I'm okay" and set up at appointment with a psychologist in January of 2017.

I kid you not when I say my psychologist actually turned to me and said, "You know… most people come in earlier than this. Like… a lot earlier."

It took her all of four seconds to diagnose me with MDD and up my medication dosage.

A couple weeks later, I had a rather stunning revelation.

I was happy.

I was driving back home, singing terribly to my favorite song in the car, and utterly happy. There was no hint of negativity that dragged it down. For the first time in years I was truly, truly happy. In fact, it had been so long that I had absolutely no idea what to do with myself. None whatsoever.

I wanted to try getting back into writing.

On February 21, Billy Joe, my cat who has been with me for as long as I can remember, passed away.

He was old, at 13 years, and sick with what the vet and I both guessed was Feline Kidney Disease, which was untreatable.

He hadn't eaten anything in three days, hadn't gone to the bathroom, and was barely drinking any water. He was also going hypothermic. The vet offered a series of fluids and pills. It would keep him alive for a while longer.

I couldn't do that to him. I loved him too much.

I knew it was time.

I knew.

So, I did the hardest thing I have ever done in my life… I let him go.

It's July, I just turned 19, I'm still trying to figure this thing called growing up out, and I have absolutely no idea what I'm doing with my life.

But. I want to write.

I swear to all of you, I am trying my hardest to get back into it. I realize it's already been far too long, but please be patient with me a bit longer. I'm trying and I swear- to you and to myself- that I will get there.

Thank you all. For all of you reviews, favorites, comments, and especially your loyalty.

Your support means more to me than I could ever express in words.