When caught up in the fog of depression, it’s easy to forget how everything changes. Through tear-soaked eyes and the lethargic lugging of my body from A to B, I’m so sustained by the battle to keep myself alive, that I barely have time to look up and see. To really see. Because with that sight comes hope, filling the crevices that have been dug by despair.
Sometimes the nourishment of rest, of self-care, of medication, seeps into the soil and bears no fruit. A futile task until the Spring sprouting of self-sought rewards. Energy. Motivation. The mindless traipsing forwards shortening the path now walked. Action breeds meaning. My meaning. My life has meaning.
It’s two years since I set the deadline. My last hope for a worthwhile life time-limited; 800 days to decide whether to live or die. Suicide seems simple in the space between now and then – a decision deferred. But now it is then. 800 pages torn. D-day. Live or die.
Two years turned, miles trodden towards today, and so much has changed. The fog has spaces between it and I blink away the tears before they threaten to fall. Depression’s grasp lessening, and now I look up and I see. In those monotonous days of sustaining breath, of nourishing buds still hidden, I was choosing my life for today – when life would seem more enticing than death; when the future promised more purpose than the past could ever hold. Nothing is the same. I am not the same. Now I choose to live.