I had decided to forego writing a year ender post as I had considered such to be a novel act on my part; I have been cutting down on novelties and trivialities in recent weeks, and I’ve been avoiding nostalgia which, I’ve come to conclude, is detrimental to my psyche.
But alas, here we are with another lengthy post that may or may not have been brought upon by … nostalgia. It’s not a nostalgia of my doing, however. It’s seeing other people’s summarization of their years that prompted me to asses my own year.
Not much has transpired during the year, to be frank. I haven’t had any known pregnancies, nor have I finally given birth to a healthy bouncing baby pizza. I haven’t had achievements in one often refers to as “work.” I haven’t had life-altering, earth-shattering movements in my music (i.e. my album, or EP, or even a single.)
This time last year, I’ve set some goals for 2019. Nothing fancy, nothing grand, as I’ve known not to shoot for the stars anymore. I think weight loss was on a list. To release that stubborn as fuck album is on there, too, I believe.
But nothing materialized from what was supposed to be this year’s goals. I got sidetracked from achievements that I would certainly have been proud of.
Achievements – it’s what we all feel like posting every time a year is about to pass. Not to boast, but to remind ourselves of our vital victories we vehemently worked hard for. Not to brag, but to prove to ourselves that we are still capable of such feats. Not to show-off, but a recollection to what blessings we’ve received during the year.
Looking back at the year that was, I had one major achievement that I believe is on par with winning gold at the SEA Games, or having played Wanderland.
This year, with a lifetime of the Grim Reaper on my back, I once again chose life.
As some of you might know, at the second half of January of this year, I committed suicide twice. And twice, I chose to live longer. I asked for help. I asked to be transported to a medical facility. I chose to live half an hour after that initial attempt, and I chose to live when I woke up from that second one.
I’ve been beset with choices this year. I had the choice to bid farewell to my depression, and I had the choice to fully embrace it. I had the choice to let the chemicals run its course, and I had the choice to prolong what is, at this point in medical discovery, a neverending life with depression and anxiety.
I chose to live longer.
That is the greatest achievement I have this year. Perhaps, even in my whole life.