New Years Eve: the night depression takes my brain away from me. Early morning hours spent planning how to die, early morning hours that drifted into oblivion. It began in Berlin in 2013, I remember the whole night so clearly. When you look at pictures from that night, you would never be able to tell that I would spend 1am on, tears streaming down my face until I decided I’d had enough.

I love New Years Eve. It’s one of my favorite holidays. The idea of a new mindset, new goals, celebrating the past year and celebrating what is to come. Celebrating the ones you’re with. Celebrating for the heck of celebrating. I think it’s fun.

But I’ve gone to bed most New Years Eve nights since 2013 with a sinking feeling that I’m not meant to be alive. That I have to do something about it. That it needs to happen soon, and that the only thing that makes sense to have a goal for is the intricate details of how I’ll die. My resolution is death and it doesn’t even feel odd to me to say that. I just know it’s supposed to be odd.

I’m not walking into New Years Eve with the thought that this is how it will go. However, I believe that I will end up there. Last year after it happened I abruptly stopped taking the anti-depressants I was on, because it made no sense to me how I could be at such a low point, on them. And then I spiraled into the worst depression over the course of the next 6 months that I’ve ever experienced.

I don’t want to be there again. But it just seems like it’s inevitable. Maybe what everyone missed is that I have seasonal depression that gets a bit out of control until finally at some point in the summer things start to get better enough, until December rolls around again.

I can feel it getting heavier and heavier. My eating disorder keeps trying to take over, but I’ve done so much work in that area that it’s like this awful jarring ERROR in my brain and body that won’t let it really takeover. I recognize the good in this, but I’m not sure what’s worse: depression that wants to take my life or an eating disorder that does. When it comes to death, it seems like the eating disorder might keep me alive longer. Or at least not make any sudden rash decisions in the early stages of a relapse.

I’m always trying very hard to have a good time on New Years Eve. Sometimes, I’m even successful, but as soon as I’m alone, depression sucks my soul dry of every last bit of joy.

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