Hands against the wall.

The original plan was once my uncle passed away and I was no longer needed as a caregiver that I'd go and kill myself. Find a remote spot in the city, quietly slit my throat, and bleed away my existence.

Now my uncle is gone yet I'm still here. I haven't had a serious suicidal thought since before he died. Is that progress? I'd felt dead for so long but that's beginning to change.

It's not that his death made me appreciate the wonders of life. No, not a saccharine sentiment like that. But watching him slowly wither away made me see I have more time than I realized. That as long as I'm living I still have a chance to change things in my life.

So while my "issues" still dance inside my head, this new element has been introduced to the mix.

I'd gotten a call from the therapist I used to visit, asking if I planned on coming back. I left a voicemail message in return, informing him my uncle passed at the end of June and that I'd like to take a break from therapy.

I only went four times but now I know what it's like and can always return should the need arise.

In an e-mail from another blogger, I was told my recent blogposts seemed much happier. I noticed that too.

Slowly but surely the desire to draw and paint and create has returned. I'm finding myself being inspired by colors and shapes and nature again. That is what I want to immerse myself into right now.

You could find me by the side of the house the other day, pressing my hands against the brick facade.

I felt the HOT summer sun sting my skin. My fingertips played with the tooth of the masonry as I watched morning light magically elongate shadows on the wall. And in those sensory-filled moments I knew I was indeed alive.