A Year of Self-Love: 75/365

Twenty-one. That’s the number of days it’s been since my last downer. Twenty-one glorious days of laughter, freedom, long walks, consistent taking of my medication and supplements and feeling “normal”.

Today? Not so much.

Maybe I’m just having an off-day, but Miserable Minerva is creeping up on me – the personality I become at the start of a depressive episode when irritability begins to set in.

Like the strong-willed and stubborn-headed Taurus that I am, I fight it. Right now, a war is going on in my mind; I’m fighting myself, willing the strength in me to rage against this war with depression.

I think of Dylan Thomas’ poem Do Not Go Gentle Into That Good Night. Damn right, Dylan. I will not go gently. I will fight. I will rage, rage against the dying of light. I’m in too good a place to forego to the depression lurking just beyond the darkness hanging within arm’s reach.

I can only think of one time in my life that I didn’t fight back and I will live with that decision for the rest of my life. And ever since, I have been a fighter. I will always be a fighter. I will not go gently into the dying light. I will praise my Father even when it hurts. I will sing and dance in the rain. I will colour away my stresses. I will walk long and hard. I will wanderlust. I will pray. I will smile. I will love.

I will not give up.

Peace and love xo
Naz

Do not go gentle into that good night
By: Dylan Thomas

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

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