My life nearly ended on the night of July 13, 2013. I couldn't do it anymore. The shell of who I had become was being hacked away, bit by bit, with the tiniest of ice picks until I was nothing but a jumble of unfixable pieces.

But I overcame that. And the words tattooed on my arm proudly declare the reason why I'm still here.

I'm here today, however, not to talk about my triumphs. Of how I am able to look back on that night and see nothing but positivity and the face of the one that saved me. Of how I am a better person because of the torment my mind tried to overpower me with. Of how I don't feel the pain I once felt.

Because that's only part of my truth. The other part of my truth is ugly and heavy and horrible to look at. Tonight, I'm forced to look at that truth.

I've never thought of myself as someone who would ever be "triggered" by things. I don't look at a medicine cabinet and think of what I nearly did that night. I don't look at my tattoo or hear the song behind it and remember the suffocation. I don't feel a tightness in chest whenever my phone goes off, displaying a message from the person that pushed me over the edge. Nothing of the sort has ever happened to me. But tonight, for the first time, I have been triggered.

It was a text message that did it; much as it was a text message that did it the first time. The message itself wasn't bad. Which is why I feel guilty for letting myself stir up all these old emotions. But it mirrors the one from the summer of 2013 and it's becoming harder and harder to breathe the more I think about it. And the more I read it over and over and over and over and over.

The words are different but the connotation is the same. And it's just left for me to figure out how to deal with. I'm afraid. This level of fear is one I haven't experienced in quite a long time. I'm afraid that, if I confront this person, the same phrase that left me as a pile of rubble all those years ago will be uttered back at me once again. I'm afraid that the strength I've been working so hard on building since that awful night will all be for nothing. I'm afraid that, because I can't speak to this person about it, it will only continue and it will build and build the way it did in July.

It's all coming back and I'm not sure what to do with this reality.

I'm different now though. I have a stronger support system, better outlets (like this very website), more inner strength, a better understanding of myself, and, of course, the ink on my arm. And, let me tell you, I've been gripping onto that patch of skin so tight tonight, hoping that maybe the strength that's embedded in there will flow through me right when I need it most. And I think it's working. Slowly, sure. But it's working.

I'm not in any danger, that I can promise. Because I'm not who I used to be. I have the tools I need now and that's the best thing I could ever ask for. I don't have the desire to end it all the way I once did. Because I am so much stronger than that. The positives of this life far outweigh the negatives. So I'd like to stick around.

However, it's the tightness in my chest and the shaking of my hands that's doing me in tonight.

I need to let myself feel, I know. And I'm trying to. I am allowed to be afraid, to tremble, to cry, to do whatever I need to do to help me process this. This is the first time the negative light has washed over that moment in time since that night. And it's tainted and ugly and all too familiar.

So, for now, I wait. I write. I read. I tremble. I breathe. I feel. And I let it all come back.