An incredibly long blog post on nothing in particular

This is one of the most honest and, to me at least, one of the most important things I've ever written. I really couldn't give a shit whether it makes you feel uncomfortable or not. It does contain honest discussions of suicide and the fallout from suicide attempts, so this is the closest thing you'll get to a trigger warning, as well as inane ramblings and tearful thank-yous.

It's Saturday, the 14th of January, and I'm quietly commemorating the six-month anniversary of fucking up my suicide attempt. Yes, you read that right. This blog post explains how I came to be suicidal in the first place, so if you're curious I suggest you read it.

Not being suicidal anymore felt like being washed clean of all the hate and pain and what was left was - well, it was hope, relief, dare I even say happiness. Waking up in the morning and actually wanting to live was the most beautiful emotion I've ever felt. It's an odd thing to say, but sometimes I'm happy I failed.

As well as being happy, I was also emotionally confused and a little numb. I spent a lot of time curled up in a ball just thinking and reflecting about how close I'd come to death...I spent a couple of months doing that, especially as I realised very early on that I needed something to live for if I wasn't to become suicidal again.

I've talked about this before, but I think it needs repeating: wanting to kill yourself isn't deep or profound or attention-seeking or a blessing in disguise or whatever some people with big mouths and small minds say it is, it's anywhere from shit to living hell.

While suicidal, I learned nothing about caring for my companions on this planet. I was selfish and prejudiced and bought into a lot of lies. It was only when I started healing that I started to change my ways - and while I can't cancel out the bad things I've thought, said and done, I can try and move past them and fix my mistakes. I can remember what being suicidal was like and empathise with other people; I can decide to cast aside my judgements.

I guess what I'm really doing is being triumphant. I went through hell; I almost died; my friends pulled me out of the dark; I worked to stay out of the dark. I'm so proud and grateful when I feel happiness wash over me, because I remember what a life without happiness was like. And if you want to take my happiness away from me, if you think it's somehow worth less, fuck you. With a shovel.

These days I can't complain about my life; the emotional wounds have healed up with a few small marks to show where they once were - they're not worthy of being called scars. I can live normally for the most part - it rarely shows, and when it does...well, sometimes I curse my resilience. Sometimes I wonder whether I am worthy to live. Sometimes I think that I should just finish what I left off.

I've got two main reasons for living: the first is my leftism and my desire to make the world a little less of a fucked-up place. Throwing myself into whatever work I can find helps, and it helps too to feel like someone, somewhere, might need me to stay alive and help out with something.

That brings me on to my second reason for living: the amazing people I know, a lot of whom I met on Twitter. I feel no shame in telling you that some of you keep me alive with your wit, intellect and compassion. I'm so glad I met you and I thank you - with as much emotion as I am comfortable to show - for existing.