Something weird has been happening. These past few days, I've been pottering around, finishing off some Oxfam stuff and cycling around. Doesn't sound too weird. But the weird thing is, I've felt happy.

It started in Italy. On the first day, I got a bit upset because of things that had happened in the past but I managed to stop myself before my thoughts got out of control. I said: "No, it doesn't matter, all that matters is that I'm in this beautiful sunny place with friendly people and good food and drink and what could I have to complain about?" So I hauled myself up into the present, a place which is alien to me, and began to make the most of it.

This present thing really is a very weird concept for me but not only have I realised that it's somewhere where I should spend more time but I've also started to move there, all thanks to writing my blog.

My auntie commented on my blog a while ago that I should try and live more in the present and my grandpa after seeing it, sent me the The Beautiful Life by Simon Parke. There are so many great quotes in the book but this one is particularly relevant.

There is no greater gift to yourself than being in the present. In one sense, it is the only gift that matters. For only in the present are we conscious, awake to the moment, which is why yesterday's an illness and tomorrow's a disease...The pig knows these things...So we let the pig instruct us in the profound things of life. There is the sun, the potato peel the mud and the farmer scratching its back. Does there need to be anything else?

Of course, I'm scared I'm going to start feeling rubbish again. When you've spent so much time feeling bad, it's strange to feel anything else. But I think with Richard (my therapist) and going to Australia that things are changing. I really hope so because I've been sorting out old papers and magazines in my room and I've written the same unhappy thoughts and feelings for years. Too many years. I've been stuck.

But now I think for the first time, I can let some of it go. It happened, so what. All I'm doing by thinking about it and going over and over it, is picking at the scab and making it bleed. Trickles of blood, trickles of anger and pain and anguish and upsetness and depression and hurt and guilt and regret.

That's not to say it's easy or that negative thoughts don't pop into my mind. I particularly feel bad about Henry. That we could've been so different if I hadn't been so depressed. But I don't hate myself for being depressed anymore and that's a big step forward. I think I have had a hard time and I'm getting better at not comparing myself with other people.