They’re not the reason why I sit down at my dining room table each and every single night as soon as my son is asleep to type hundreds of words at a time until my eyes hurt and become convinced I’ve spelt the word “are” wrong. They’re not the reason that instead of my incessant monotone black dog endlessly narrating from my skull, everything I do , have done or will do, I also have another voice in there too, a happier one, well, normally. One that thinks of things to write, funny ways to say things and comes up with ideas out of nowhere. The numbers aren’t the reason I get comments and emails thanking me for spouting out the contents of my grey matter and being honest about depression. The numbers aren’t the reason why I’ve made so, so many fucking wonderfully epic friends in the last year. Where somehow, for the first time ever I feel accepted and welcome, where it’s OK for me to say I feel like jumping out of a window or that I think Bean has been a bit of an arsehole because he used my Clinique to clean my glasses.

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