Some days I want to write and write and write, and then there are others... the days where I feel as though I physically would choke and die if I attempted to open my journal and put ink on page. I remember that choke . I used to feel it tighten my throat whenever I cracked open a box of cheap wine and realized I had drank more than intended the night before and could not make it through an entire day with the remaining contents of the sloshing, poisonous bag. I used to feel it whenever I attempted stepping out of the house, and unless it was for another box of wine, I often let it defeat me. "The Gift of Fear" I thought, priding myself on being so good and so gentle with the mental illnesses that trapped me in that apartment for five slippery sloshing years. Mental illness does not deserve my kind regard. Recently, I've been feeling pretty down on myself, because at 235 days, I am not a saint. The miraculous transformation I expected to continue in...