It’s been almost 9 months since my last blog…that must mean good news right? Nothing bad to report, a mass self-improvement, and a permanent new found happiness? Sadly that’s not the case. 2019 has had it’s fair share of lows, and after re-reading my blog from last January, the reality that I’m in exactly the same place that I was at the turn of the last new year hurts deeply.
In May of this year I ended my two year run of group therapy, which I had attended most Thursday’s for that period, and this was certainly a loss. Whilst it didn’t help me therapeutically, it did provide a safe space where I could discuss my issues with other like minded people, without fear of reprisals. It probably didn’t help that this coincided with me being off work sick for over 3 months because of this black dog in my mind. This has happened before, and in my heart of hearts I know it will happen again, but it doesn’t make it any easier to cope with, nor does the well I fall into become any easier to climb from. I did manage to clamber out in the end, but I was weaker from having been in it for so long. I feel like every time this happens a little bit of me is chipped away, and a small part of myself is gone forever.
Before Christmas I had my usual festive wobble. It happens every year, although some years are worse than others. It’s a time when I feel most out of place, most like an outsider, and most lonely. It’s a time when I feel sad, nostalgic, anxious, and it’s when my inability to change is most apparent. I love the build up to Christmas, but I hate how I feel during those times when I should feel happy, but just cannot.
Of course this illness means that positives are always ignored in favour of the negatives, I realise that. However, I struggle to find any positives from this year, further exacerbated by reading last January’s blog. I did manage to get back to work, and have been in this job for over a year now, but really, that is the bare minimum I should expect of myself. It’s very much like being a flower…I’m still alive, still breathing, still standing upright, but have failed to blossom.
I don’t do new years’ resolutions, but if I were to make one it would be that this time next year my reflections of the past 12 months would very different to what they are now. But that’s why I don’t make resolutions. If I set my sights high, there is further to fall. Every January I think and hope that this may be the year when things change, but they never do. Why should 2020 be any different? Well, unlike all the other years, this one has not happened yet, and that is the one thing it has going for it. This I must cling to, for it is the only chance there is for the flower to finally blossom.
The Inner Darkness - My secret battle with depression and anxiety 