I didn't realize how bad my depression had gotten until I revisited my defunct blog to see that my last draft was an unfinished suicide letter. I haven't read it, but the title was an instant reminder. I don't say that for sympathy, but rather, a reminder to myself that, fuck, it was almost the end.
2015 was a resolutely shitty year. I feel like I watched myself live it instead of actually being in my body for any part of it. For me, depression is the act of cowering under a blanket of bullshit woven by some salient incidents and false narratives. It wasn't the first time darkness has gotten too heavy a grip on my
shoulder, and I'm sure it won't be the last. I hope I can contain the
fire before the entire forest is razed should we ever meet again.
Today, I am verdant sprouts upon scorched earth. I am fog clearing, lifted by saccharine zephyrs and piercing light. As the phoenix, I will rise, and let the embers fall off my wings as I ascend.
Oddly, this insight was gained by virtue of starting my taxes. I made more money in 2014 than I did in 2015, yet I only worked for eight months in 2014. I looked at those two figures, thousands of dollars apart, and my first thought was, "it's time to get real. This isn't working." No more bullshit blanket.
I'm sure most writing advice sites don't advocate for introducing yourself to potential readers as a sometimes depressed, broke, rape survivor with stars in her eyes after New Year's Eve, but in the interest of being real, I am.
