I got three different candles for Christmas and each night, I rotate which one I light. I like candles. They’re pretty, smell good (unless they suck) and did I mention they smell good?

I did? Well, they do. (Sometimes, if they don’t suck.)

These are all high quality candles, given to me by my mother, husband and daughter. There’s Lucious Plum, Fresh Falling Snow and Blackberry Cream. Tonight’s scent is Lucious Plum.

I would be remiss not to add that candles also cover up the smell of marijuana.

I had a nice Christmas. I bonded with my brother a little. I made sure to say Merry Christmas to all of the people that I care about, via technology. I ate shit tons of my aunts homemade chocolate bark.


The next morning, my husband was already taking down the Christmas tree and other decor. I didn’t mind, but alas as I was too fatigued, I didn’t help much. I just watched from the couch, feeling down, but of course denying it. I don’t want to get depressed again. Like, really.

Don’t get me wrong, I was happy to see it all go. My place is much too small for all of that nonsense. We are downsizing to a table top tree next year. I mean, the kid is grown and she shows little interest in decorating the house. A table top tree just screams old married couple with grown ass kids.

2015 has been an extremely shit year for me, with too many whammy’s to count. I hate to say this and this might piss off the positive among you, but I don’t see 2016 getting much better. My life has been the suck since 2011.

I am still fighting for my mental health and my physical health is complete crap. So, I don’t get excited about a new year like most people do. We eat some shrimp and fall asleep by 10PM. I wake up the next day and it’s a new year. Another number added to your calendar that you picked up at the mall the day after Christmas.

I had one wonderful New Years Eve and this year is its 20th anniversary. I’ll tell the story at another time. I don’t want to get the feels right now.

The last few days I have felt like isolating myself and wallowing. It seems to be a cycle. Maybe that is what happens with depression. I am used to having an antidepressant last me years, so this is a real eye-opener.

Ain’t nothin’ like it used to be. Then again, I’m living a life that I don’t really want. That is the root of my problems here. It isn’t hard to zero in on the culprit.

I was reading an article that I won’t link (cause don’t care) about how there is a higher suicide rate for people with fibro. Even people who don’t have a prior history of mental illness.

Let me just clarify: Living in constant pain and being tired as fuck, day in and day out, is not a fun way to live. I do not blame anyone for thinking about suicide, myself included. It makes it doubly worse for me, because I do have a prior mental illness, from childhood even.

I find myself feeling more empathy towards people when they feel like they want to die. The majority of  people that I talk to, they don’t understand why someone would want to destroy their life, on purpose.

Aren’t they the lucky ones?