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.
