When I was 15 I was feeling very suicidal, I had very few friends, school wasn't great, and I was very mentally ill. I was intensely and painfully depressed, I was hallucinating (I head people whispering about me and saw tree branches leaning down to grab me...it was terrifying) and I had an eating disorder...I was a complete mess and was too scared to tell anyone or get any help. On the 10th of December that year I decided quite coldly to kill myself. But I also realized what a devastating effect that this would have on my family, and decided to give them a year, if things didn't get any better then I would kill myself on the next December 10th...by the next year, things hadn't got better exactly, but I'd started therapy, and thought I could hold on another year, so I'd wait another year, but just until next year, it was still so damn hard...and the next year I decided again to wait another year...as the years have gone by I've always commemorated the 10th of December. Most years until recently I've spent it not fighting depression and just wallowed in my misery, getting horribly drunk, and wondering why the hell I keep doing this, why I haven't just given in yet...But over the last couple of years, there's been a change...I've started instead celebrating the fact that I am still alive, that I haven't given up, that I have things to live for...thanking God I never did give in...but I suppose I've always had it in the back of my head, even in the good years, I have kept wondering why I keep going, because life is a lot better, but it's still so damn hard...
This year I feel like I finally have the answer to that question, I kept going so I could have this. Because by the next December 10th I will be someone's mummy, and I will be the wife of the man I love more than anything else.
This year we celebrated by putting up our Christmas tree!...and yes, yes, that is a little Cthulhu at the top of the tree!
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