Proof of Life

This morning I smiled at myself in the mirror while I was getting ready for the day, and I noticed something: when I smile, I have wrinkles under my eyes now. Maybe they’ve been there for a while — I don’t look in mirrors very often — but today was the first time I’ve noticed them.

It’s a big deal for me, but not for reasons of vanity. From the ages of 23 to 45, I honestly believed I would never live long enough to get wrinkles. I knew with every fiber of my being that someday my depression would win and I’d die by my own hand.

That changed around the beginning of 2021. I’m not sure why. There was probably yet another tweak to my medication cocktail, or maybe there was something else. But I became aware that I probably wouldn’t kill myself. I might die of old age or disease or getting hit by a bus, just like everyone else. I didn’t want to die. Not anymore.

So being old enough to notice wrinkles in the mirror this morning feels like an accomplishment. I’m getting older. I never gave in to my depression. It’s a quiet little victory, but at the same time, it feels huge.

I’m still alive.