For those used to writing about the weight of depression, happiness seems hard to define as something solid.
And by no means has ‘recovery’ been perfect. I managed to get myself into a nightmarish relationship straight afterwards, was further emotionally traumatised by Will.. uhh I mean Bill, and ended up quitting my whole life in Oxford. But, at no point since Recovery Day no.1 did I reach the lowest ever again. Why?
Because I knew I could fucking handle it.
I’m going to keep this short (and decidedly not sweet), as the images speak for themselves. And I’ve been dithering and worrying about whether to even make this post at all, and have landed on yes. I should. Yes, it’s important and necessary to document an experience like this in order to protect myself. And […]
“I can’t wait to get back to see those American asses in tight jeans,” the women here “all have flat asses”, oh and “my Thai squeeze is so frigid, she won’t even hold my hand” but simultaneously “they’re all so easy!”OH, aaaaand “I hate all Thai women”, they’re “greedy” and “all they want is money.” […]