Yesterday I told a customer that she might suffer from seasonal affective disorder (SAD). I have never seen someone look so relieved, yet terrified in my life. She looked about 40, and wrote seasonal affective disorder down on one of our brown paper bags. I wish I could have told her that it gets better, but it doesn't really, so I just said "take care".
My new counselor, Poppy, recommended doing sudoku, playing a musical instrument and telling my friends that I didn't want to be a burden, as coping mechanisms for my galloping ants and sadness blanket. I was too scared to tell her that I prefer drinking excess alcohol on an empty stomach, reading Lozza's emails over and over and making funeral playlists on my iPod.
My next tattoo is going to be "brave" written in braille on my right pinky finger (the finger you use to lead blind/vision impaired children in new environments).
I'm tempted to drop out of uni to work on my first novel, get a job at a kids clothing store and learn braille...or drop out of health science and do an arts degree (majoring in creative writing) and go nowhere in life. Maybe that would make things a tiny bit better?
It is so fucking tiring being brave.