Spite and other reasons to stay alive

Or, how the first few months of 2025 dragged me through the mud and still gave me flowers.

The first few months of 2025 was a menace.

Let’s get that out of the way first. It was hideous in that slow-burning way that creeps up on you while you’re still trying to finish your coffee.

It didn’t crash in with drama and fanfare.

It eroded.

Quietly.

Steadily.

Like heartbreak that simmers instead of shatters.

But, much as I hate to admit it, it was also kind.

Not in a sunshine-and-rainbows sort of way. But in a “it shoved me into a freezing river and then handed me a towel after” kind of way. The kind of kindness that feels like an insult until much later, when you’re dry and warm and grudgingly grateful.

What I told myself #1: “I think I’m fine. I can power through this year.”

Sure, January.

It started like every year does, with leftover hope and recycled resolutions. But January has always been more than just a calendar checkpoint for me. It’s a milestone.

Eight years ago, I walked into my first therapy session for CPTSD. Shaky, reluctant, armed with nothing but vague hope and that particular kind of exhaustion you only get from pretending you’re okay.

One year later, I walked out of weekly therapy with a little more clarity, a toolbox of coping mechanisms, and the faint but steady realisation that maybe, just maybe, I could trust myself.

That kind of healing doesn’t announce itself. It doesn’t scream transformation or get fireworks. It shows up in tiny, defiant ways.

Like making your bed. Saying no. Not replying to that one text. Or eating an actual vegetable.

What I told myself #2: “Let’s not talk about feelings. That’s too soft.”

Lies.

Sometimes we pretend we’re handling things just fine. And then one random afternoon, over a perfectly cooked salmon at a restaurant, I suddenly found myself blinking too fast, swallowing hard, willing myself not to cry while I’m surrounded by strangers.

Because it had hit me, out of nowhere and all at once: my dad has Alzheimer’s. And this is going to be a battle.

One I can’t logic or fix my way out of. One that doesn’t get better, only harder.

The salmon was still fabulous. But I wasn’t.

Healing isn’t a destination. It’s a choice you make every time things fall apart again. Laughing when you can. Crying when you need to. Every time you want to disappear but decide to show up instead. It’s a kind of rebellion. A middle finger to every version of yourself that said “you can’t do this.”

What I told myself #3: “Live for purpose.”

What even is purpose?

A friend once asked me, “What’s the point?”

And for a while, my answer was “nothing.”

Because life doesn’t owe us meaning. It doesn’t guarantee happiness or fairness or even a decent explanation. It just is.

And maybe that’s the point. Maybe the point is that we get to decide. That we can make something beautiful out of nothing. Or at least mildly tolerable with snacks and decent Wi-Fi.

Better choice: “Live for spite.”

Yes. Spite.

Live because the world doesn’t want you to. Because someone said you couldn’t. Because the government is a mess and the system is rigged and Enrile is still alive and we simply cannot let him win.

There’s power in that. In saying “fuck it” and continuing anyway. There’s grace in defiance. There’s freedom in choosing to stay, even when everything tells you not to.

What I told myself #4: “Healing is linear.”

Nope. Healing is a karaoke machine. Sometimes you hit all the notes, sometimes you’re crying while belting out “My Immortal” at 2AM. And sometimes, you’re just screaming into the void, hoping it echoes back something useful.

But you keep singing anyway.

Because despite the mess, the contradictions, the heartbreak, and the long nights—you’re still here.

And that counts.

So here’s to the ones who keep showing up.

Who laugh at memes and fight invisible battles.

Who take breaks, take meds, take risks.

Who live for spite, for love, for revenge, for their dogs.

Who fall apart and rebuild themselves again with tape, therapy, and a touch of delulu.

Here’s to every questionable decision that turned out to be a good story.

In transit, intentionally,