The first of July, 2019.
Cascading like a waterfall down and down into a greedily abyssal state. Bottomless. it gives no relief. The past crawls up my back and my future is blunted against my face. Narrowed and passage less. Within a tightening noose and a shrinking box; a bag upon my head; I bow my head, lower my eyes, from a force I can't shake off. This is the middle of my life and I can find no shelter from the relentless mass pouring on me from depression and anxiety. Antagonism without quarter; without quenching. To be called a shitty person and looked at with loathing, for being honest about my experiences. To be told I'm playing the mental health card by an old school friend. To have the flood gates open and to be washed into the gutter without a soul throwing me a lifesaver. And I came to Wetherby to relax ahead of the Work Capability Assessment! It's impossible when I've to spend most of the afternoon and early evening hidden away from the berserker who is meant to be my sister: t...