Being ill has meant leaving my life behind. I’ve left my flat, my job, my friends. I’m back in my hometown. I haven’t lived here for six years. The friends I grew up with have left.
Mental illness has caused me to lose friends before. My friends from university no longer speak to me. They are justified. I treated them badly. None of us knew at the time that I was in the depths of mental despair. They bore the brunt of it.
School friends don’t invite me to get-togethers.
Current friends are a long way away, living their lives without me.
I live in the same house as my sister. But she lives her life. Full of work, and fun, and friends, and her boyfriend. It’s Saturday night. She goes out. I have nowhere to go. No-one to go out with. So I stay at home.
I don’t mean to sound so down, so depressed. But it’s hard sometimes. I’m in my mid twenties. A time we are constantly told is the best time of our lives. And yet I hate it. I have no friends. I don’t know when I last socialised with someone that was not my parents or my sister. Why don’t I have friends?
Does no one like me? Is it my anorexia-riddled brain telling me lies? Am I just doomed to forever be a disaster?