“I wake up every morning, get dressed and carry on with the day. Even when I don’t feel like it, it’s just what you do.” – Grandad
I was raised strong. I was always a child that held fire in her eyes and I loved it. I challenged people. I questioned life. You get up in the morning and you start anew, you continue on and work through each day.
I have had panic disorder, anxiety, agoraphobia, depression and PTSD but I ALWAYS got up in a morning – even if that was all I did. I had moments of not eating, months of being mute, years of being bullied and belittled. That fire within me dimmed significantly, but it still existed. I still kept hold of that strength, it got me through. Every day was a new day.
I lost my mind somewhere around 2004, so many weeks and months that I have no recollection of. But I got myself out of bed. Always. Made sure to look after my body, if not my mind. Sleep. Eat. Wash. Dress. Read. Repeat.
Never in my life have I been broken.
Until 12:30pm on January 11th 2018. It was a Thursday.
There was no more getting out of bed. Eating was something I held zero interest in doing. In bed, I stayed, for 4 days.
But then, Monday came around and I was expected in University. So, up I got and off I went.
I survived. Unwillingly.
I went from stiff upper lip, ‘I’ve never cried in public’ to “Oh, I’m crying on the bus.”
Falling apart in public became a frequent occurrence. Crying in public bathrooms, on buses, in the street and in the shop was no longer something within my control. It just happened.
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