When do you…

…stop believing?

Porglet Maximus is eight and intelligent. This means that part of her knows that Santa isn’t real and that it’s actually me/her Dad. However, she also longs to live in world full of magic and loves using her imagination. This means she’s desperate to hang onto the illusion of Santa for one more year.

I do the same.

I’m thirty-four and intelligent. I know that my brain doesn’t work in the same way as everyone else’s. That my emotions can’t be relied upon and that rational thought disappears once my emotions get triggered (no matter how much I argue otherwise!). I also know that I suffer from recurrent depressive disorder and sometimes I’m going to feel depressed for reasons other than BPD ones. I know I should take medication for the rest of my life to keep things as stable as possible.

However, I also have a vivid imagination and long for this rollercoaster of emotions to, quite simply, bog off. I long for a time where I’ll wake up and just get on with a day without having to question how I’m feeling, what I’m doing and whether I’m going to blow up at something or not. I wish for the magic of waking up “normal” and never feeling depressed ever again.

However, like Porglet Maximus, I know this is just a fond wish. I’ve suffered bouts of depression since my teens (funnily enough, it’s been worse in years ending in 7 and 3!) and it’s not going to go away. I have BPD; it’s built into my genetic code and all I can do is accept it, watch out for it and live with it the best way I can. Santa is not going to take it away; there is no magical “get better” potion I can take.

And I’m OK with that. Just like Maximus will be OK with the thought of Santa being a myth.

No matter what your state of health, I hope you have the best Christmas possible. x

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