The inevitable 'catch up and review' type post

This time a year ago I was in Bogota. Contemplating life, the world and another year I had escaped for three weeks to try and get a grip on why I was so increasingly unsettled.

Of course I had a complete overhaul and massive revelations that changed the course of my life entirely.  Ok hardly, but it did start me off down a track of vulnerable honesty and deconstruction.

It's a very difficult place to be in right now, looking at the determined lists and resolutions I made in what I assumed would the the low point that led to the high.  Now I know it was the beginning of a year of falling apart and sharing my weakness, and that the lows were far from the bottom and anything other than fleeting.

It's hard to ignore the instinct that tells me this year has been a failure, that I've not achieved what I set out to do.  In fact I'm taking apart big chunks of my comfortable life partly to move forward - but also because I can't carry on.  That's a horrible feeling.  To know that a year on I'm still not ok.

It's safe to say that my pride has been to diminished to nothing this year; I've had to be too honest to hold on to any illusions of togetherness or success.  After ten years of independence I've had to ask my parents to look after me again, and am forever asking friends to forgive me for hiding from them.  The title of this blog stings as I go part time to try and find the energy to build myself up again.  At the very height of insecurity I'm choosing to give up having any disposable income and giving up my home.

It's not a bucket list or handful of New Years' resolutions that I need this year.  It's not that I'm directionless or bored or lazy.

'No human, you can't
go back to bed.'

I'm broken and I'm scared.

So what do I do? Hide under my duvet indefinitely?  Unfortunately the four legged creatures I live with won't allow this. Write some lists full of gusto and positive cliches?  Been there, done that.
Make some goals?  Falling short anymore is simply too much. Pull it together? If I could, I would have already.

By my calculations that leaves one thing; wait it out.  The one good thing about living with depression for a while is that I now know what to expect. I just have to hold back the panic and breathe.

There are always chinks of light even when the dark seems unending.
Even if the clouds never cease their lurking, there are days that seem lighter.
I cannot compare myself to anyone else, particularly on social media. (Which lies.)
There is no shame in starting again, even if this isn't starting again... it's all forward.
I genuinely prefer a blank page to a rut.  Remember this.
Hurt nurtures compassion,  This is the time to become a really really nice person.
I don't have to be sorted yet, if ever.  I am allowed to muddle through.
It'll be ok.  It will.

And why I am broadcasting this quite so publicly? Because feeling ashamed feeds the dark.  Making depression a taboo also further stigmatises it. Talking about it shines light on how common it is to feel out of control and useless.  Because whatever I may feel on any given day, what I've documented reminds me that I am not completely lost, that I've had moments of clarity and hope - maybe even wisdom. I'm not whinging, I'm fighting.  I'm not pushing a sob story, I'm telling a real story.  I don't want attention, I want it on the record that I'm not going to give up.

Happy, terrifying, New Year.  There is more to come.