I love my new flat. I love the freedom it affords me. And I'm not often proud (like, never) but I love what I've done with it - all on a shoe-string too.
Living alone doesn't scare me because there is always something to occupy my mind with. But then, somewhere around January I took a sickening nose dive and for the last two weeks I've lived mostly back at my mum's.
Knowing that this is what I needed was a positive step. Sadly, however, it's caused all the ugly faces in my head to start with their toxic, negative chatter: 'You can't live alone! 'Have you made a huge mistake?' 'Yes! Because you're hopeless!'
What I've learned though is this:
A depressed person should not be left alone. You see, in previous depressions, unable to cope with seeing people, I've always pulled up the draw bridge and shut up shop. But I've always lived at home. Ergo, there has still been some form of human contact and distraction.
For the depressed individual, every hour can seem interminable; a slow, quiet form of torture at the mercy of monsters in your head.
Now I'm starting to have moments where I can see sunbeams at the end of the tunnel, my gut still tells me it was absolutely the right move (again showing the importance of not making rash decisions when low).
It may not be possible to move in with a friend or family member when you hit a depression but never underestimate the importance of human contact in recovery. Even if only for an hour or so propped up in a café, or sat in the library, pretending to read.
It can be of great comfort (I would imagine) to feel a reassuring hand on our back when awaking from a nightmare. So too, feeling the motion of humans around us can bring solace when we're feeling little more than a spectral shadow.
A Moodscope member.
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