a year on Bear
The first of June marked one year since I joined Bear.
A year ago, I was diagnosed with severe clinical depression. I was urged by a therapist to reconnect with my life, my hobbies. You need to find something to cling to, to save your life, she said.
I have always loved writing: argumentative essays in English classes at school, short stories on Wattpad, introspections scribbled across worn-out journals. But depression took that from me. Words were all I have ever known, yet for a long time, I no longer had any of my own.
Soon, I was navigating the world in an alien, foreign language that no one else understood. Words constantly failed me. I feel helpless, I wanted to scream, but I sought silence instead.
I came across Bear coincidentally. I was half-drugged on a new SSRI prescription, hazily doomscrolling through my phone, waiting for all of this to end. There was an aching despair, a strange kind of grief that I don't think I will ever forget. Bear was a coincidence, yes, but it felt like a small invitation back to myself, a lifeline of some sorts. The next day, I had my first blogpost up, and for the first time in years, I felt better. I wanted to live another day to write another post.
Few days ago, I was sorting an old storage box, chaotically crammed with fragments of my past - notebooks, sketches, old university coursework. I found a tattered, black leather journal, 2019-2020 faintly scrawled on its cover. In one entry, I had written about wanting to start a blog, a space to discuss growing up, mental health, things I love.
I had forgotten I ever wrote that. Moment like these makes me believe life is not coincidental. That maybe, even in our worst days, there's something quietly unfolding in the background, even when we can't see it. That what's meant to find us will find us, eventually.
Since last June, I found my words again. Some days they still feel fragile, but they're still mine. I like to think Bear saved my life.