It’s the little things.

I thought, I’ll just check in Henry’s design book to see what an Eames chair looks like. It was mentioned in my book and while I thought I knew what it looked like, I wanted to be sure. And then, oh, I can’t. I haven’t got it anymore.

And the big ones.

I wouldn’t have been reading if I was still with Henry; he couldn’t sleep with the light on.

Recently, books have been my lifesaver. Even at my worst, five weeks ago now, that horribly awful and painful weekend, somehow, and thank god I did, I managed to start reading a book. Obviously it was about a mad person, that helped. And it was easy to read and written in really short chapters with usually four or six pages. That helped too. And the best thing, the really amazing thing was that I finished it about a week later.

I can’t remember the last time I finished a book, maybe a year ago and maybe a year ago before that. I’ve started plenty of books and they line my walls like half-read ghosts. I can still remember their stories but they haunt me with a sense of failure rather than satisfaction. They weren’t bad stories, I just got distracted or couldn’t concentrate and got out of the habit and then I feel that after a few days or a week or so you can’t pick them back up. It's just wrong.

So when I start a book I’m scared that I won’t finish it. There’s nothing that tells me I won’t, I’ve given up on first pages, second pages and anywhere in the middle, even when the end is in sight, even when I’m really enjoying it, just when I think I’m on the home straight, I stop reading, for whatever reason. I hate myself for that.

But hurrah, after reading that book I’ve read three more. Four books finished in four weeks, that’s a record. I’m worried that I’ll fail pretty soon but I’m still reading. I like it. It’s a friend. It’s company. It gives me something to look forward to in the evenings when I’ll just be home alone. Even the worst nights of the week, even on Friday and Saturday nights you don’t feel so excruciatingly lonely when you’ve got a book to read.

Now when I’m walking or cycling around Leeds, it doesn’t feel so bad because I act like I’m in a book. In my head, I’m speaking as if I’m reading something that someone else has written and you read about people on their own all the time and reading about them doesn’t make you feel sad or depressed, it makes you think they're interesting, even cool. Cool, to me anyway.

I’m riding my bike through Chapeltown to go to my therapist and I cycle along a new route through the back streets and it’s a bit scary because Chapeltown is a bit scary and I cross a street a taxi driver once told me he wouldn’t go down. As I’m cycling through the houses all I can think is that the neighbourhood is so quiet. There is no noise. Literally none. Why is the neighbourhood so quiet? And I'm thinking to myself, this is the kind of place where I could get shot. It wouldn’t surprise me. A woman looks at me as I cycle past as if she wonders what I’m doing there, disturbing the peace. Why have I ventured into her neighbourhood?

And I’m liking describing the scene to myself and I'm liking observing because it makes me feel less lonely.

I'm so glad I'm going away. I've got to let him go.

Oh Henry.
What did we do? All those hours, all that time.
Do you ever think about me?

I must stop messaging you.

The hardest thing is accepting who you are

But how do you know what to accept and how much you can change?

I wish I could change waking up so exhausted. As usual I slept through a few cycles of my alarm so then I had to choose between meds or breakfast. I've long ago given up getting to work anytime before ten.

As I was cycling down the road, I realised something was missing. It was my bag. I'd left it in the kitchen with my keys and wallet and phone. I hope my landlady will be home this evening to let me in...

I love it when the sky turns black and moody and it feels like night-time when it's only the middle of the afternoon. Thunder and lightening starts it off, and then the rain. Buckets of rain. Hard pelting rain.

I put my arms out of the window. I want them to feel the force of the rain because the rain’s so alive and it makes my arms feel alive. I’m watching the clouds and the rain pour down and I like listening to the noise it makes; an awakening sort of noise.

My boss closes the windows because the rain’s coming in, in big splashes, and even when I leave just an inch open, the force of the rain splatters the sill in seconds, so I have to close it totally. But I don’t want to, I want to let the rain come in and I want to watch it falling from the dark sky because it makes me feel; it makes me feel vibrant and alive, and I’ve spent too much time feeling dead.

When my mum found me on Sunday, I was a mess. I wasn’t difficult to find as I was in my house but I was lost.

It sounds stupid given what I’d written on my blog on Saturday but I really hadn’t thought of the implications of Henry moving out. It hadn’t crossed my mind that while I’d been seeing him every week or so to sort out things, I wouldn’t be able to do that anymore. And then the bombshell; when would I see him again? Maybe I’d never see him again? In my tearful state everything seemed equally possible and anything was likely to make me start crying.

My mum had brought some food with her and it was then that I realised how hungry I was and that it was no wonder I was feeling so bad as I hadn’t been eating properly. I've been rubbish at cooking for myself and surviving on cereal, jacket potatoes, fruit and far, far too many sweets. The addiction had returned and like any addiction, once it kicked in, required constant feeding.

Today with some proper food inside me, I feel better.

And I feel better too for talking to my mum. For the last ten years, I’ve lived in the past, the past before the last ten years. The past, mostly regrets, a lot of upsetness and unhappiness and depression. A lot of memories I want to block out and periods of time, I wish I could just cut out of my brain – the only way I can see myself being free of them. And now, those ten years adding to my earlier memories which makes me feel even worse. Worse because of how depressed I've been which makes me more depressed for being depressed.

We did a lot of talking which really helped me and I began to see, maybe for the first time, (although it’s always difficult to say and who knows what I'll feel like tomorrow?) my past as being separate from myself. I saw it as something that has happened, so that I can now step away and look at it for what it was, rather than what it is. Is this the start of a new me? Maybe but I know it’s not going to be easy. However, the fact that I can detach myself and float above my past (even for a day) is surely a good thing.

H came round earlier to swap pillows and duvets and give me some post. It’s his final day in Leeds today. I feel quite bad because he’s had to do loads and loads of cleaning. He’s hoovering and cleaning the outside of the windows and inside of the bins and I feel guilty because I haven’t had to do any of it. I did offer to help but he said it was ok.

And I feel sad. Sad because things haven’t worked out and I’m thinking how maybe things could’ve been different if we’d lived somewhere else – maybe I would’ve been happier if we’d had a garden or a cat, or if I hadn’t been so tired or we’d managed to sort that out sooner (although I’m not sure if I have sorted that out, I’m just sort of ignoring it), or if I’d appreciated him more and not made him feel guilty the whole time about being who he was and liking cars and racing. Because at the end of the day we did get on well and we did have fun. And I miss his hugs and his company and his friendship.

YAY! YAY! YAY! I've booked my tickets to Australia. I fly to Perth on 4th September and fly back from Melbourne on 4th November. Oooooh am so smiley and happy. (How long will it last?)

After a major wobble yesterday morning, I managed to get a grip and coped pretty well with the day. It was helped by the fact that the boss-boss and boss-boss-boss were coming so I couldn't really sit there crying and really had to make a massive effort to seem intelligent.

So yay! And yay for today. A day off. After two months of working four and a half days a week, I’m back down to three and a half. Hurrah! How did I ever survive working so much? Oh yes, I didn’t.

Anyway, days off in the week (when you’re working) are much better than the weekend. Well, for me anyway as I feel much less lonely than I do at the weekend: pottering about, listening to the radio, going food shopping, just hanging out on my own doesn’t feel so bad. More normal. Less mad. After all, weekends are for fun and socialising and if you don’t have that you feel wrong. I’ve got lots of things to do, all the same things I’ve had to do last weekend and the weekend before but today I think I might actually do them. Cancelling bills from Henry’s for a start... After all, I only moved out three months ago.

Oh, except that is, when other people ask you what you did on your day off and you feel like you have to say something good. Other people, other people. What is that about? Other people make me happy, other people make me sad.

Of course, yesterday was easy compared with today. Today is the real test.

I hope I’m less mental this week. Last week was really tough and I can’t really cope with another one like it. In fact, I’ve got things to do damn it; I can’t be depressed. I need to do some work for a start. My boss is really understanding but he’s going to start getting annoyed with me soon if I don’t start functioning like a vaguely normal human being. Fiona (my job share partner) says I’m nuts, I like the way she says it though; it makes me laugh. Last week she said I was £$*^!”% nuts and I hope that’s the most nuts she sees me.

Things ARE looking better but then I’ve made this mistake before so I’m trying to take it easy today and be nice to myself. I’m going to drastically lower my expectations: if I don’t get upset today then today will be a success. It will be as much a success as someone running a mini-marathon. Or at least, I think so. I’m not really sure about that comparison but you get the idea.

Rob rang me yesterday. Thank God for Rob. At the time I was ridiculously upset about Henry. He hadn’t done anything, I’ve just been missing him a lot and seem to have had a delayed reaction to the break-up. Or maybe it’s just that recently when I’ve been too ill/depressed to spend every moment of my day busying myself with work-related stuff I’ve had more time to think about him, me, us, things.

Anyway Rob rang and I stopped being upset. And we made plans about Australia. Australia is what I’m going to do next, I think.

My job, my crutch, the only thing that has stopped me from losing it completely since H and I split up, is ending. This is one of the reasons why I’ve been struggling so much recently. It’s not as if it were unexpected, I only ever had a six month contract and while there were times when it looked like it could be extended, it’s not going to be.

So August 3rd, that’s it. Normal people might relish the possibilities that being so free offers. I just panic. A lot. So I came up with an abstract plan. A plan that involves going to Australia. I don’t have to think about a job or where I’m going to live because, in my mind, Australia fills the vacuum that is the rest of my life.

I’ve mentioned travelling before. A lot. I’m mentioned Australia too. No one ever takes any notice because I never go. Fears, excuses stand in my way: I’ve got no one to go with, what happens if I get ill – usually physically but now mentally. So I don’t go and every time I hear of anyone going travelling my heart sinks and I feel sick.

But Rob’s got September off work and a plan is formulating. Which is great but it also means that going to Australia has a start date and an end. It stops giving me an excuse for the rest of the year. And so I stop thinking about whether I’m going to go or not and start immediately stressing about what I’m going to do when I come back.

I am trying (honestly) not to be grumpy and in a bad mood today but it's really difficult when you wake up feeling more exhausted than you did when you went to bed. Also, my glands are causing me quite a bit of discomfort which is the last thing I need right now.

I've been updating a 'coffee calculator' in the office which shows you how much money you pay for a coffee and how much goes to the farmer and retailer. I'm going to make a Lucy calculator which I can put on my desk so people don't have to ask what's wrong with me today. It will say, Lucy's xxxx is/are bad today. xxxx = chest/stomach/head/glands/energy levels/concentration. I think that covers most things.

I'm feeling much better now. I went to see my therapist this morning and then went to work in the afternoon. My head's still fuzzy and I can't concentrate that well but at least I managed to go to the office and even do some work.

Today is a holding day.

I feel like someone's dragged razor wire through my body. It's OK though, I haven't fallen apart. I just have to work really hard to hold myself together. If I can do that I'll be alright. I just have to hold it together. That's all. If I can keep it together today, I'll be OK.

Last night this weird thing happened, I was tidying up my room and listening to music and jollying around and suddenly without knowing where it came from, I realised that I felt happy. Yes, that I was actually feeling happy.

Obviously it hasn't lasted and I seem to have spent most of today fighting back tears or blatantly just crying my eyes out.

I’m sitting at the kitchen table typing this. I’ve decided that having a kitchen table is a requisite for any future house I have. As you can see I’m in a better mood today.

Last weekend was scary, so scary in fact that I emailed my consultant and asked him if I really had to go into hospital and if so, could I maybe go to Bristol where my family is? I just felt that being in a room all by myself could really send me over the edge. It might seem a bit far-fetched now, I mean, even to me it seems a bit over-the-top but I guess that just goes to show how much better I’m feeling.

In fact, sitting here writing this, even I can’t understand how last weekend I could hardly get out of bed because I felt so bad. How could I not have picked up all the rubbish on my floor? How could I leave my door ajar when there were other people in the house and they could see all the papers and magazines and recycling in my room? And how could I not have been up to speaking to my friend who I know would have made me feel better?

It was going to work that made me feel better so the thought of being in hospital away from work just seemed the most ridiculous thing to do. After all, there’s no point in giving my chest a super-boost if I’m going to be too depressed to do my meds when I come out. And as I’d waited a week or so for a bed, what was a week or so more? It wasn't an urgent admission. My consultant sent me a nice email back and I think I’m going to go in to see him and discuss things next week.