If my parents didn’t need me, if I weren’t scared of offending God, and if I didn’t have this speck of tenacious hope left in my spirit, I would have died this year. Like wanted to die. Like actively wished I were dead sort of thing. There were times I’d see glimpses of myself dying in my sleep or wandering aimlessly in a street somewhere being hit by a speeding car or just downright contracting some disease and passing away in MMC.

And no, I don’t say this in a emotard kind of way. I also did not do anything self destructive much as I was tempted to do so many times. I have never been suicidal but I have also never been this tired. 

This has just really been an excruciatingly painful year to live. There were happy highlights, but they were easily killed off by the mostly mundane. 

I am not sure if this is what depression feels. They say being depressed means feeling trapped, helpless and hopeless, so if I still have this speck of hope, then I should be fine.

But what if I lose it?