"I struggle to find light," Tamara says from her blue recliner throne. It's day two of our self-made creatives' retreat, and our intimate group of photographers and painters and musicians and writers is sprawled across the great room in various states of dress, one by one sharing stories of struggle and success. I memorize the beautiful, open faces around me, the bodies folded around coffee mugs and champagne glasses, fingers twirling pens and massaging keyboards. And I think, "I'm so fucking glad to be alive."
In the fall after I turned 19, I swallowed a large number of pills, laid down on my bed, and waited to die.