Six years ago I left the life I knew and arrived in the Midlands with a two-year-old daughter. Angry with the world, unwell and struggling to cope, I faced a choice. I could battle my way out of my hell or give up.
I gave up. Tired of fighting and battling on, the world felt a harsh and unwelcoming place to be. I’d grown exhausted with the effort of simply existing.
At rock bottom I waited for someone up come along and gather me up, but no-one came.
My anger at the world depended. My previous efforts to get some help and support have proved fruitless. I felt dismissed, unworthy and abandoned to my fate.
But only one person was really in a position to change things: Me. So I decided to fight.
I fought for a further two years for the support I needed. I got it in the end.
Therapy isn't for everyone. It's hard. It’s emotional. It’s challenging. It’s distressing. It throws you off kilter. It's the hardest thing I've ever done. It's the best thing I've ever done. It's changed my life and saved my life. It’s fascinating, it’s incredible and it’s worth it.
Now with it coming to an end I'm proud at what I've achieved and the point I have reached. It's a happy ending.
It's time up move on and stand on my own two feet. To do the things I've always wanted to do. To live the life I could never imagine I could have, that's now within my grasp. It’s there for the taking. I’ll seize it with both hands.
I'm approaching 40 and learning to live. Really live. It makes the future exciting and the past more than manageable.
The point of this post? Simply this: never lose hope.















