I was a little more sluggish in getting out of bed and found myself fatigued and wanting to do as little as possible.
My bedroom got messier, my face broke out in horrible cystic acne, my hair started thinning, mood-swings and my hormones were so off that my monthly appointments with Mama nature kept standing me up. For as long as I'd been conscious of myself and my imperfections, which I'll say was probably round 5 or 6 years old, there'd always been this race I thought I was running. That if I just get past this point I'd be fine and this pervasive feeling of darkness would just leave. So naturally, I kept working way more than what was required of me; at school, then at college, then at university. At each stage, feeling vulnerable and completely depleted, I was sure that this working hard would "pay off" as I'd heard so many times. I thought that finishing uni would be my final hurdle, but it wasn't.
In the space of two years, I'd had 4 different jobs in different sectors of the design industry, moved house about three times, lost all of my savings, accumulated loads of debts and been in out of broken friendships and relationships. With each turbulent event, I never really gave myself time to recover or to rest—mostly because I couldn't. At 18 I'd moved out of my mother's place to London to both ease the financial burden on her and to study Design. I worked all throughout uni to support my family and pay for my sky-high rent prices in London.
"With each turbulent event, I never really gave myself time to recover or to rest"
It was around November 2014 when things began to plummet. I vividly remember this one night in November, I had an eery breakdown, one that I'd never experienced before. Having always been anxiety-ridden, this time felt very different, a lot different, actually. I don't remember exactly what set it off but I was supposed to be meeting a friend for dinner after a stressful day at work and I'd gotten lost. After walking around for about 45 minutes, my heart and back felt super heavy and I started crying for no reason. I threw my stuff to the ground and just kinda crouched on the wet pavement, heaving and coughing underneath the arches in Marylebone. I had no idea that this teary night would be the first of many. Sometimes these "things", as I would call them, would happen around 4 or 5 times a week. Some months I'd only have 3 episodes.
It was about 4 months of this battling that I finally called someone and told them about it. I had no idea that what I was experiencing was depression, mostly because at the time, I felt like the word was so overused.