Anniversary Blues

Anniversaries are often cause for celebration, for remembering, reflecting and gathering with family and friends. Last month was my birthday; in a week it’s my parents wedding anniversary. These are anniversaries of exciting things, of birth and committments.

But there are difficult anniversaries too – those days that we could play over and over in our minds, no matter how little we want to.

In January I remember how I struggle, every winter, with the ending and the beginning of each year and the expectation and pressure that seems to be placed upon both.

In February I remember barely being able to function, and barely being able to make it into lectures. I remember being diagnosed with anxiety and depression and the beginning of what led to a year’s break from university.

In March I remember Covid, I guess we all do. I remember when everyone’s world suddenly got much smaller, and for some got so much harder, as we kept two meters away from each other and the whole country was told to stay at home.

With April comes one of my most difficult memories. I remember ambulances and A&E, I remember paramedics and mental health nurses, and the serious looks on my friends’ and family’s faces.

In May I remember the month that followed that April, I remember the crisis team, and being told that it would be like being in hospital the amount I would see them. But it was my mum who encouraged me out of bed and encouraged me to do something little each day.

In June I remember the pain of broken friendships and the feelings of abandonment that followed. I remember trying to understand but feeling so hurt, not knowing whether my perspective was rational or the words that had been written were true.

In July, and sometimes when I’m sat in a car, I remember the crash, when the lorry driver fell asleep at the wheel, when my mum took the worst of the hit. When we all ok in the end, but they took the four of us, me and my sister just little kids, in two ambulances to the nearest hospital. I’m not even sure if it was in July.

In August I remember how distorted my sleep got in those long summer holidays after exams, when I would fall asleep at 4am and wake up in the early afternoon.

In September I remember living in London but having nowhere to live. I remember going to work and pretending to function, as each week or so, or sometimes after just a few days, I moved from one friend’s flat to another, sofa surfing as I tried again and again to find somewhere to, even just temporarily, call home.

In October I remember, with shocking clarity, the day that I found at one of my closest friends had died, and how, for a whole half a day, I denied that what I had been told could be true.

In November, I remember, and experience, how the darkness draws in closer each night and the hours of daylight feel like they’re going to disappear completely.

In December I remember how, each year, I still seem to struggle to feel part of the ‘Christmas joy’.

It seems it doesn’t really take living that long, to have a year full of difficult memories playing through our minds. And that’s without having met the majority of my grandparents, and so never having a memory of losing them too.

But I have to remind myself sometimes that this is not all there ever was. That there was much good amongst the bad. That, yes, it has been hard, but there is so much to be grateful for too.

In January I will remember first putting my trust in Jesus, I remember the joy and comfort that came for discovering and realising my faith.

In February I will remember how much of a relief it was to open up about my struggles and receive a diagnosis that validated what I was experiencing.

In March I will remember Easter, and that, even in the face of grief and death, we can know the joy and hope of a saviour who has overcome the grave.

In April I will remember the friends who sat with me in hospital, who cared enough to be there, and who still care enough to stick by my side too.

In May I will remember my family, and how they helped to care for me when I could not care for myself.

In June I will remember to notice that there are things I like about summer, and I will remember to enjoy the light,  knowing that the light will triumph over darkness in the end.

In July I will remember how encouraging I have found serving on youth camp to be. It’ll be pretty easy to remember given I’ll be there again, and yet it still surprises me how much I love that week.

In August I will remember how long the summer days are, I will remember swimming in lidos with friends, and doing things I never thought I would, like giving a talk or flying solo to Vietnam.

In September I will remember that, although those new things, like uni and new jobs, were terrifying, I did actually manage to survive them all.

In October I will remember that after years and years of feeling overlooked or disregarded by GPs and the mental healthcare system, I finally started a form of counselling that is on the NHS and actually seems to fit what I am experiencing.

In November I will remember that after weeks and weeks of sofa surfing, I did find a place to live, and with the exception of three rather stressful months, it’s been a pretty peaceful place to live for the last three years too.

In December I will remember, that despite all my hold ups with the Christmas season, the heart of the celebration is so wonderfully true. God was born into this world, Jesus made his home among us.

I will remember the good and the bad, because both are important.

I used to wonder if marking some of the more significant anniversaries made them harder, but sometimes there isn’t really a choice to remember, you just do, and it often runs deeper in us than the literal memory of these events too.

Whilst it may not be a good idea to dwell in the difficult memories, and whilst my brain is quick to slip into ‘all or nothing’, I will try to take hold of both, and remember the God who has been with me through it all.