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Why 2015 was a terrible year for me

Funny thing is, a lot of people I have talked to have said to me that 2015 was not their year either. That it was filled to the brim with mishaps and regrets and they just hated the year in general.

2015 was a rubbish year for me.

It’s probably why I’ve been so pessimistic for the last few months. I can’t even say realistic anymore like I used to, I’ve just been marinating in plain old pessimism. And it has got to stop, but first of all, I’ve just got to get a lot off my chest before I am able to move on from it.

First off, at the beginning of 2015’s academic year, I found out that I didn’t get into university. Which was heart breaking for me because I have always idealised getting into university as a milestone that I must reach otherwise I amounted to nothing. So, you can understand the heartbreak, right? But then, a university actually called me up and told me they could offer me place.

And this is something I haven’t really told anyone because what I did next was just… Unthinkable.

I refused the offer.

And I know, I know how silly that may seem given the obvious heart break and melancholy that had followed not being offered a place. I know that it seems unthinkable. But really, that choice was made because I actually thought about it. Was the course I picked really the right one for me? And guess what I concluded (which really should be obvious from the way this is going), I concluded no. No the course that I had thought I wanted to do, did not encompass the elements of enjoyment that I needed.

So, yes, I rejected the offer.

And that should of made me far more determined and hard working come September, but it didn’t. The damage had already been done, my depression set in motion. I was officially on the brink of destruction.

I was completely distraught from the whole situation that the thought of living became unbearable. That was, unless I found something productive with my days to do. So, I signed up to a volunteering programme in a rush without really thinking about whether it was what I wanted to do. I passed the interview, passed the training and was on my way to better things. Or, so I thought. Until I decided to leave about a week into it because it hadn’t been what I wanted to do. I didn’t like the hours, I didn’t like the challenge despite loving the people and so left.

And this… this had set me back about a month at this point. I was dwaddling half way through September and for some reason, not doing anything seemed to make me feel worse. So, I did what I did best, walked around the City of London that day. I walked until my feet were sore, rode bus after bus until every time I closed my eyes I saw red and listened to people’s conversations until they became a mild amusement to my spiralling thoughts.

That day was a strange one.

I was crying in the middle of the street without a care in the world. I was making plan after goddamn plan on what to do. I was planning if I wanted to go to university the next year, what steps I needed to take. If I didn’t want to do anything, what steps I needed to take.

I mean, this was mainly around the time I was seriously contemplating suicide. It had, at the time, seemed like the only viable option and I was quite frankly exhausted of putting on a smile for my friends. I was exhausted of pretending to everyone that everything was alright and I just wanted to exit this world in a quite permanent matter.

But I didn’t.

You see, the months before, I’d had a mental health assessment because I was not in too good a place in April. Because they hadn’t any spaces at the time, in true British fashion, I was put into a cue and told to wait. And, even though this was at the back of my mind, I never thought it would come to fruition because it had been months since I had last heard of them.

But I had gotten a phone call saying that they could now offer me therapy. So, I had another option. I could either live in depression for the next year and go to university, kill myself (this was something I had made a plan and set a date to) or try and get better and if I really wanted to, go to university.

I ended up choosing the third option (obviously). I changed the content of my blog so I could start writing how I felt more freely, I went to weekly therapy sessions, I got a job (that I deeply enjoy), I visited my friends in uni as to not feel as alone and I am now applying to university.

I should place a disclaimer right here, right now, I am not at all healed by a long shot. In fact, my allotted number of therapy sessions are coming to an end (I’m on 10 out of 12) and I actually started a club that I’m not interested in. I still have flashbacks, bouts of depression, my anxiety is a weird thing that has sky rocketed and I still go through spells of suicidal ideation. But, I am getting better.

I am getting better.

And I’ll tell you how and why in the next blog post.

Nakedstreetkid out x

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