I had a bit of a moment yesterday. I’d had a great lay in, some breakfast, coloured in a page of my Sweary Colouring Book and been for a long walk by the river with my mum and the dogs. I was in the kitchen, making a cup of tea and blasting my happy playlist when my nan showed up and I didn’t even say anything, just dragged her into the kitchen and danced with her to Junior Senior’s Move Your Feet. None of these things were a particular catalyst, but I had a moment right then and had to gulp a few times to stop from having a little happy cry. I’m really fucking grateful for my life.
Some recent happy things
There’s loads of things about my life that give me something to moan about, and I do, far more frequently than I ought to. Sure, I now spend 4 hours a day commuting, but at least I have a job. My job stresses me out sometimes, but at least I’m surrounded by amazing people when I’m there. Sometimes I hate not having enough money to do the things I want to do, but at least that means I have a life to do things with. I’m not a fan of living out in the sticks, but at least I can see the stars at night. My greatest friends live hours away, but at least I have friends. I sometimes get jealous of people who seem to have their shit so together, but at least I’m alive and breathing. Because, really, it could be so much worse.
Almost immediately after yesterday’s ‘good god, I’m actually really happy to be alive and life is good’ moment, I remembered the exact polar opposite feeling I had this time last year. I actually wrote a post about it, how I was feeling at the time, not even slightly expecting the onslaught of concerned comments, tweets, even an email from a very old friend who I hadn’t spoken to in years and didn’t even know read my blog. Almost every message I received at that time suggested ‘hey, it sounds like you might be suffering depression’. And you know what? In hindsight, I think I was. I never saw a doctor – too embarrassed, too ashamed, too busy being consumed by my fucking misery. And things actually went downhill from there. I split up with my boyfriend, I had to leave my beautiful home in London and come crawling back to my parents with my tail between my legs, admitting that I’d failed at adulting. I gained even more weight and spent a good few months questioning every decision I’d ever made. I would have welcomed a biblical-style apocalypse with open arms at that time.
But now? I’m actually happy. I’m really, really fucking happy. Things could be better, of course they could, but they could be so, so much fucking worse. I have the best family, the best dogs and the best friends I could ever wish for. I’ve lost at least two stone since moving home. I’m more active, both socially and physically. I’m more me. And what more can you wish for but that? I might not know exactly what the master plan is, what I’m doing with my life or how I’m going to get there, but I know this: I will figure it out, and come hell or high water I will achieve it. And I’d be honoured if you’d stick around and listen to more of my self-indulgent rambling along the way.