In my twenties, I loved reading, cooking and myself. I fought every battle that came my way. I lost my temper frequently, and had no patience.
The first time around, back in 2003, things got so bad that I went to see a Doctor, who put me on an antidepressant and an anti-anxiety medication, but I hated the way they made me feel. Everything blurred, sometimes feeling nothing is worse than feeling overwhelmed by dark emotions. At least then, I knew I was still connected to my life. I flushed all the medication down the toilet and never went back to see that Doctor. For a while, I fooled myself that I was okay, that I had everything under control, but deep down inside I knew that was not the case. For the first time in my life, I lied to myself – not an easy thing to do!
In my thirties, I hated the things I once loved, including myself. I fought no battles, not even the important ones. I lost myself and had no patience for myself.
18th March 2003 I wrote in my diary:
Forget detached… I floated away! Came back to Earth on my Birthday and didn’t even realise that I’d skipped 3 days. At first, I didn’t even realise that it was my Birthday. It only struck me when a friend came around to wish me a Happy Birthday, and mentioned in passing that I looked much better. I had to ask her what the hell she was talking about. For someone who prides herself on control this is the worst feeling ever. Another friend wanted to know if I’d tried to top myself! I was shocked by her question, as I’d never considered suicide as an option and I hope I never will. What had I done and did I really want to know? In short, probably not, why make myself feel any worse than I already did!
In my forties, I rediscovered the joys of reading and cooking. I only fight the battles that are important to me. I found myself. I’m more patient with others and myself.
Happiness makes up in height what it lacks in length.