Dear Charlie,
Nothing worthwhile is easy, right?
I've heard it before, a thousand different ways.
So that must mean that living is worthwhile
because it's hard. It's so ******* hard,
and it's like I'm fighting my apathy
every single second
while being chased around by the frenzy,
comprised of responsibilities and expectations
and that look in my mother's eyes when
she's proud.
I'm trying though. I'm trying
to get better.
This year was better than last year,
because I didn't swim a black sea.
I merely floated,
and only once was I pulled down.
In a month, I resurfaced.
I'm stronger, I think. I might have
that infamous Achilles' heel,
somewhere inside this ice cold, stone heart.
But the monsters didn't keep me,
didn't ruin any holidays,
didn't even make me consider
swallowing little white pill after little white pill.
I'm not perfectly healed, or even three quarters
okay. But I'm getting there,
Charlie.
You know what I mean.

In the next year,
I don't want to dream
to be happy. But I do want
to be even happier.
I want to do something,
whatever that may be.
And I want to see so many things,
and appreciate life.
I'm getting there, Charlie. I'm finding
my way there.
My only resolution next year
is to be able to say,
"I made it. I'm doing better.
I can live. And breathe.
I am going to be okay."
And that's more than enough,
isn't it, Charlie?