The Year of Celebration

I have gratitude today. I try to have it everyday, but let's be honest, it can be damn hard when you're in the throes of a major depression so sometimes I just forget. I find writing a gratitude list can help (to be fair I often count my blessings in my mind rather than a piece of paper, which might not be as effective, but it certainly still does something). Today I am thankful to and for Sarah Frick. Despite the fact that we have only met twice (through her lovely husband John who often comes down to Bermuda for deep sea fishing) and the wide expanse of the Atlantic Ocean separates us, I consider her a soul sister. The reason I do is because I have been deeply inspired by Sarah's faith, hope and 'grace' over the last couple of years. Sarah writes a blog called Love Letters to Grace, which began following the loss of her days-old daughter Clara Grace. Sarah has chronicled her life since that time in the most beautiful, devoted way, by sharing those feelings with ...

I've interrupted my attempts at sleep as my whirring thoughts developed into a blog post. My mind couldn't quiet as I was reading a book and I didn't think that watching a show would help so I decided to try to sleep. The problem is that neither my mind or body are conforming to that wish. So lying there staring at the walls in the dark I am brought back to my childhood nights. When I was much younger my bedtime was 8pm and I was invariably asleep even before then. My mother was grateful for a child who took herself off to bed before even being told. But as I grew older and approached adolescence I would be sent to bed before I was ready and, just as tonight, I would lie and stare around the darkened room and I would daydream about my future:  I was going to win an Academy Award before I was 30. I would travel to every country in the world. I would have a lot of money and never drink or do drugs and I would live securely in a large house where no one would ever have cause ...

My history of self-harm is etched on my skin like timeless art that will last forever. Yes, it fades at the years go by just as a painting in a gallery would if it were not protected by custom glass. It is frightening to admit and yet I do, because I know there are others like me who speak that truth only to the walls of their mental prison.  To Write Love On Her Arms is an organisation whose name grasped me the moment I heard it. I'm not sure when that was, but the idea that love could replace cuts and gashes was novel to me and one I hold on to like a life preserver in the vastness of a dark ocean.  A week ago I found myself sitting on the wet mat on the bathroom floor leaning against the tub. It was not somewhere I ever thought I would be again (unless of course I'd slipped coming out of the shower, as would not be unexpected given my clumsiness). My last major depressive episode was just before my diagnosis and the medication has warded off the deadliest demons ...