Depression is like an invisible vampire, it sucks everything from you, draining you of your life force. Leaving you an empty shell of a person, desperately just trying to stay alive and make it through another shitty day.
So you’ve finally done it, whether it’s rented or bought; you’ve got your own place. Nice one. And you’ve got all your lovely furniture, and it doesn’t matter what anyone says. It doesn’t have to be one-off, bespoke pieces made of Sumatran pine, handcrafted in the Gobi desert. Ikea will be fine.
Remember when you were a kid, and you got sick? Remember how nice it was that someone else took care of literally everything for you? They did everything, from making the appointment to collecting (and paying for) your medicine. You didn’t have to lift a finger.
Anyone who’s ever looked at buying house knows how ridiculously expensive it is. And if you’re a millennial like me, then you’ll know it’s all your fault. But still it’s a sound investment so my wife and I decided to go for it. We couldn’t afford to save up whilst we were still paying full rent and bills so my mother-in-law very kindly suggested we move in with her whilst we save up.
Christmas adverts and shows have a lot to answer for. They show families as these smiling faces, sitting round the Pinterest-worthy table, laughing like they’re wasted. And social media is no better. With photos, pins, posts, tweets, and snaps showing just how happy their families are.
None of family hug, we never did. I have two brothers and two sisters, and I can’t even remember the last time I hugged them. It will have been at very least 10 years ago. My mother wasn’t an affectionate woman. In fact, I can remember two times when she hugged me as an adult. Once was a random new year and the other was when I moved out. So it pretty much goes without saying that hugs were not bandied about very often.