Oh this house! This house! This prison! The torturous hell! I hate this house, with a passion.
It's warm and it's safe and its central (in a small village). It's clean, it's tidy and it's supposed to be our home.
Did I mention I hate it?!
I gave it a go, but living indoors is simply not for me. Living in a village is not for me. Living in this community is not for me. Living in North Devon is not for me. There are plenty of things here not for me. There hasn't been one day I've enjoyed this building.
Look careful and you'll see the laundry drying on the curtain pole-it seems I do a shit-ton of laundry now I live in a house, or maybe it's because I live with a boy. I freaking hate doing laundry the 'normal' way! Whatever happened to rigging out a rope line from my van and drying my undies on the dashboard?
Staying put in North Devon has been the single worst act of disrespect to my mental health I have ever committed-and that's saying something! I have cracked a tooth and cannot find an NHS dentist, I have walked three times into doctors surgeries begging for help in fits of tears only to be put on a 2 year waiting list. And one time, my favourite time, to be handed a weeks supply of antidepressants and swallowed all seven immediately and have no follow up or even a phonecall.
I tried joining a Pilates studio only to be confronted with unhealthy gossip and unchallenging workouts. I joined a gym (the only gym) to be ogled by men who had skipped leg day. I cycled 6 miles to the only public pool to bathe in a warm slosh of greasy piss. I forwent decent phone signal and therefore could not even phone emergency services for help as I had public breakdowns in the road as stinking tractors zoomed passed me and wannabee country yummy mummies laughed as I crumbled infront of their school gates. I've locked myself in the prison for days on end in the hope that creativity will appear inside of me and I've refused to re-enter this house because it's not my home, because it's not mine, and it's not a home, and caused my boyfriend great pain. I've never once slept soundly as I did in the van or in a tent and yet I nap all day. I take multiple trips to shops and post offices when my errands could be done in one go in the hope, the desperate hope that someone, anyone, will return my eye contact, will offer a smile, will take the opportunity to say hello, or just run me over and stop this agony. I wonder, daily, if the population of this shitty village are working together to gaslight me by pretending I am invisible. I wonder if it's me- is it me? Am I the problem? Am I a shitty human being? Do I deserve this? Do I need this?
Coincidentally coinciding with Mental Health Awareness Week, I have decided to return to the blog, re-open the accompanying Instagram page (ironic considering the news) and share with you all my journey in getting back outside, rebuilding my confidence and restructuring my life. I'll be revaluating my priorities, making a 'friends-list-cull' and most excitingly of all, moving away from this terrible, terrible place. I once read that it is silly to expect to get better in the environment that made you sad. I like this because unlike other self help quotes, it suggests that physical situations can just sometimes be crap. I can try as much as I want to make this place work out but truth is, it just wont.
Right, that was a quick one. I'm off to drive three hours away from here for some much needed solo respite and a dentist. Welcome back.