Thread by @drjanaway

In 40 minutes I turn 33 years old, and every year passed gives me pause to reflect on how a deal I made in my youth. When I was 24, and severely depressed, I imposed the date of my own execution. If things did not improve by age 30, that was it.

I was going through therapy at the time, and probably my 3rd major depressive episode, but quite certainly the worst until that point. In truth, it carried on in some fashion until I was around 29, before disappearing for a brief time. At this time the deal was still there.

Around 2017 I suffered the worst depressive episode, and during that time decided to move into psychiatry. In a grandiose manner, I decided to sublimate my pain into helping others. This was selfish, to think my experiences would entitle me to such responsibility.

Soon after I hit 30 years old, and although I was not fully better, the day of death came and went. Six years of silent measurement against an unknown goal faded, and the dreams of reconciliation against a depressed mind seemed far away. I needed that promise to cope at the time.

It's funny, looking back, at who I was then. This insecure, narcissistic, and wounded creature, selfish and blaming others for my issues. It took a long time to see the problems I created and much longer than I would have liked. I lost a lot because of this.

I lost friends, love, aspirations, and most poignantly, myself. I became entranced by these toxic-masculine ideas of what it was to be strong when all I needed was to make peace with my weaknesses, to see my flaws as a human, not a disappointment but just part of who I was.

In essence, to attempt to cure my pain I was cruel to myself, embittered by loss, angry at the world, and for what reason? How much of this was me? How much of it did I create? Seemingly most of it, but I was blind at the time.

So each year older I look back at that time, and the age of 30 and the silly promise, and remind myself that nothing was gained through cruelty, through expectation, through pressure, or through hiding pain. Survival was a kind reflection, self-honesty, and empathy.

It was realising that no man is an island unless he chooses to be, that love and friends lost do not occur outside of one's control in many cases, and that what is lost does not need to be regained. That life is simply a connection of changes that we can choose to learn from.

That our strengths come through our connections with others, our ability to admit to mistakes and forgive, to feel pain and let ourselves feel it honestly, to talk, to find meaning, and to let time pass. We also need to be honest with ourselves, take responsibility.

There is nothing in this world that is deserved of any of us, no morality, no universal ethic, no right or wrong other than our creation, the world will not wait for us or make deals, nor hold our expectations in respect. It comes to us to grow, and sometimes, this takes pain.

So, at 33, this year I do not raise a glass of Whiskey or smoke a cigar as per the last 10 (I have not the former, and I quit the latter,) and this time only ask one thing, that those in pain, like me, consider this; every day that passes is one more toward recovery.

Although I have been depressed again since, this time each episode helps me learn more about the role I play, and how to improve. Yes, they are awful, but without them, I would have continued the same person, not one I could be proud of.

So here is to one year older, hopefully, a little wiser, definitely a bit more tired and chubby, and, I hope, someone that the 24-year-old me could look to with hope. It's okay little guy, you didn't lose the world, you were just yet to find it.

And to those who wonder, including my family who I know sneak a look here, I am fine now. Therapy and medication, support and purpose, and most importantly, knowing that I have you all. There is no story alone.