When I first moved back to London last April, I wrote out these lines from a Walking On Cars song and stuck them beside my bed. They filled me with hope and reminded me how far I’d come.
But that didn’t happen – it was the worst timing in the world for my body to give up on me. I’d just gotten back together with someone and I thought we would finally have a proper shot at a fun relationship. One month in I started fainting, and the pressure and stress was just too much, too soon.
I ended up losing my boyfriend a few days after I got home to Ireland. So there I was with a broken body and a broken heart. Then my mind felt left out and decided it wanted to crack too. I blamed myself for everything, and I’ve been filled with shame since. That’s what really stings: the shame that I’ve ended up back in this position again and so utterly powerless. So I’ve been isolating myself from friends and family and finding it difficult to engage with the support that’s being offered to me. I haven’t been looking after myself.
My addled brain became convinced that was it, game over, you see. That this was my only shot at happiness, at making a life in London work. How will I ever get a job again? What if I have no friends left when I go back? I think of the future and I feel overwhelmed by panic.
But something has clicked in my brain these past few days. I can’t fight a war on so many fronts, so I’ve put my broken heart into a box for now, and I’m putting my faith in the universe and serendipity that maybe it will heal. I can’t control somebody else’s feelings. This is one situation where I’m powerless and I have to accept that. I can only concentrate on me.
What I can do though is take back the power over my mind and body and try to make them strong once more. Writing is something that makes me feel good about myself so this blog is a first step out of misery. London, happiness and health all feel a long way away, but I hope I can find my way back.