I will survive.

Somewhere in the worst month you have had, the bed still got stripped and remade. Not on a schedule, and not because you felt like a person who changes sheets. It happened anyway, on some unremarkable afternoon, and nobody was told.

Survival is almost never the cinematic version. It is maintenance, performed by somebody who feels entirely unable to perform maintenance, and it looks like nothing at all from outside. It is also, in the end, the whole of it — a life kept ticking over by a person not currently enjoying that life.