In 2016, I fell in love; got engaged; prepared to emigrate; and conjured up dreams of a new life.
In 2016, I had my heart broken; witnessed those aforementioned dreams fall apart; suffered an unprecedented emotional collapse – replete with the darkest of thoughts – and began taking Citalopram.
31 weeks into my prescription, having been so busy with being busy and doing things that make me happy, and also at times even forgetting about the fact I am actually on medication; I have yet to visit a counsellor. (This was supposed to follow the first six or so weeks of Citalopram, which was expected to level out my emotions, so I could actually talk about things without breaking down.) Truth be told, my failure to speak to a counsellor is a source of great shame and guilt. To do so is an immediate priority for the new year.
In 2016, I cried more tears than I even knew I had; and drank for the wrong reasons.
In 2016, I visited Liverpool; my first trip up North.
In 2016, I read Rupi Kaur.
In 2016, I saw two of my closest friends get married.
In 2016, this happened.
In 2016, I wrote this
and ate these.
In 2016, I renewed my library card
and bought the greatest Christmas jumper ever.
128 days ago, on 27th August 2016, I launched Whatever Words; and since then have made too many friends to list here, and discovered the phenomenal #TalkMH Twitter chat. I have met the closest one, Laura Cloughley, and will meet countless others in upcoming months.
In 2016, I read Matt Haig
and discovered that life is always worth it.