Tonight the world is celebrating, revelling in the possibilities of new beginnings and fresh opportunities.
Masses of people will dance in the street and look on in awe as Colourful Fireworks rain down in cities across the globe.
But for me, this annual excitement is over shadowed by the haunting realisation that while New York may be dropping the ball in Times Square, I can’t help but feel like I have dropped the ball on my entire life.
As the clock strikes 12, I will still be here, still stuck on the same roller coaster. Still the high school drop out, teen mother, jobless, mentally ill person. Still being a mediocre wife, a feeble excuse for a parent and an absent friend. I am still that person that spends too much time wondering if the only thing that will change in the next 12 months is the date on my tombstone while my strange little eccentricities tell me that 2018 would be a nicer year to die than 2017 simply because I like the look of even years more than odd ones…
As a suicide survivor, it always seems like the end of another year should signal some sort of victory, the 2017 ship has sailed off into the sunset and sunk into its watery grave dragging with it the last of my faith in democracy and a cesspool of my tarnished Hollywood heroes, and yet still I live.
I feel intense guilt for not appreciating those doctors and nurses that saved my life that night back in 2015.
I can’t help but think that if I had died back then Robin Williams and Carrie Fisher would have remained immortal, my Dad wouldn’t have Alzheimer’s, Trump would just be a reality TV star, my kids would be better off and American Beauty could have remained my favourite movie.
But because they found me before my heart took its final beat, I am supposed to be thankful for every new moment I get, technically this is my second chance at life, I would never have seen my sons grow into young men or watched my daughter learn to swim and sometimes I am grateful, yet my roller coaster of moods always pulls me back down into the quicksand of depression and once again I guiltily sink, sobbing myself to sleep, hoping that this is the time I will not wake.
2017 saw the end of the business I had worked in since I was a teenager and the realisation that I may never be able to hold down a full time job. My father was officially diagnosed with Alzheimer’s, I had two major mood episodes, painfully both evolved into mixed manias lasting months a piece and led to increasing psychotic thoughts but with the help of my wonderful psychiatrist I was able to avoid hospitalisation. They gave me the courage to do things I would never have dared to such as dye my hair bright colours and get a tattoo and new piercings; they also left me with a $20,000 black hole in my bank account.
2017 has also gifted me with a lovely new therapist, quite a few new pets and amazing new friends that I have met through writing this blog.
We breathe the same air, you and I, we stare at the same moon and connect through shared experience. Yet each and every one of us thinks different thoughts, has different beliefs and sees the world in different ways.
Some of us were born into poverty, some into wealth and yet it is not money or possessions that define our worth, it is our ability to love each other unconditionally.
You guys pick me up when I’m falling, you continue to understand me in a way that nobody in my ‘real world’ possibly can, I have put my heart on the line by writing about myself so openly and yet I am richly rewarded every time I do with your kind words of support.
2018 is waiting for us whether we like it or not.
The titillations, tribulations, vicissitudes, and oxymoronic cogitations of a very lucky and unfortunate Neuroscientist with Bipolar Disorder
It was almost funny.
Torn. Broken. Writer. “For me, writing is an art of converting feelings to words.”
Read between the lines
The ups and downs of my recovery
On Being Creative, A Mother & Bipolar
Stationery Enthusiast & Mental Wellness Advocate
Speaking Out on the Unspeakable
Creative Writing. Book Reviews. Adult Humour.
NOT ALL WHO SUFFER ARE STRONG
Shattering the Magic Mirror