Twenties

It’s true what they say, you spend all your time wishing you could be a bit older and then when you get there you wish you could be younger again

I don’t think I’d mind being in my twenties so much if it had panned out as I had imagined. When I was a teenager, I had this view of my twenties-self. Slim, pretty, put-together, knew what I was about and where I wanted to be. A real hot-shot. But my real twenties-self is just a worse version of my teenage-self. I’d like to say I’m a bit less awkward, I don’t use the word “awesome” anymore at least. But actually as a teenager I had an excuse for being awkward, now as a young adult there isn’t one. Except for mental health I suppose. That old chestnut

Mental health is one of those condemning subjects I try to avoid talking about. Again, what started out as “just teenage things” has slowly developed into uncontrollable mental health issues, which were definitely not predicted as attributes of my twenties-self. Essentially, it’s just shite

I don’t like to talk about my mental health, or in fact myself. I have virtually never talked mental health with my mum, and I rarely talk to friends about it. I’ve always struggled to open up, primarily because I have no idea how to word things, but secondly because I feel so guilty if I talk about myself too much. I’ve never understood people who can brazenly talk about themselves for long periods of time, apparently not worrying about being tedious

Regardless, I can’t do that. I feel like once I open up, that’s it, I can’t take it back. So I keep it to myself and it builds up until I blow my top like a volcano. Clearly not the right way of dealing with something but that’s how it is

Recently however, a friend said something to me that’s sort of been playing on my mind since she said it. She asked me if I’d seen the new Stephen Fry documentary about manic depression. I said I hadn’t, but I had. She told me that she’d noticed that sometimes I displayed milder versions of some of the behaviours that were shown. Part of me felt upset that she’d been able to recognise something that I thought I was hiding very well, but part of me felt pleased that finally someone had been able to notice that I wasn’t quite right

I’m not self-diagnosing myself with manic depression, I truly have no idea what’s going on in my brain, be it that or not. But it’s something and that’s no mistake

I’m twenty-two, nearly twenty-three. I’m perfectly aware that the longer I go without finding out what’s going on, and finding out how to get help, the worse it’s going to be. I have a small but good support system around me, and I have people willing to help, I just need to muster the courage to help myself

Thanks for reading, Hils

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