LEWIS KELTON • MALE • 32 • ENGLAND
Around twelve years ago, I had come to accept I wasn’t going to be alive to see my 25th birthday. I had realized (or thought) I could never be truly happy—not to be mistaken with outer happiness. Making someone else happy would make me happy, but that would just be on the surface. All I could feel deep down was rage, self-loathing, and misery. I couldn’t live a lifetime like this. I didn’t want to, and I genuinely didn’t care anymore, so in my mind, it was just a matter of the right time.
But then something happened. On September 6th, 2015, my niece was born. Seeing that baby starting to grow changed something in me, and I knew I had to at least try.
I asked for help. There were only two people in my life I told everything, and that was more than enough. Eventually, among the severe depression and anxiety, I was diagnosed with intrusive thoughts of OCD. Just having names for what was going on in my head seems like a small step but was a massive thing for me. I wasn’t beyond repair.
Fast forward eight years, and I have recently started drawing again—the first time since I was at my lowest. But this time it’s for my two-year-old daughter. Another little thing, but it feels like a big deal to me.
Although life isn’t perfect, I honestly never thought I could be so happy. Asking for help only took me a minute, and it’s given me more than I could ever imagine.
