I started the year sad. Thin. Sadly not thin in a Kate Moss way, but rather in a stretched, emotionally wrecked way.
I started therapy. Not just CBT, but deep psychoanalysis. Jesus, that shit’s hard core.
I sold a house, moved out. And bought another one. All in 42 days.
I moved three times. Mostly in between extensive travel for work.
I lived in a flat for two months with no fridge and no curtains. And, literally, not a pot in which to boil water. (Buddy of Bosom, I will be eternally grateful).
I went to London. Twice. And to Lisbon.
I put on an (*cough*…award-winning…*cough*) event in Shanghai.
Followed by 2 weeks of backpacking through a bit of Eastern China.
Followed by two more events in Johannesburg.
I lost one of my best friends. (I think forever.)
I hired my first minion. The hiring process took four months. I received over 400 resumes and replied, personally, to every single one. I interviewed 18 and whittled them down to 3 for final rounds with the rest of the circus team. I was nearly forced to kill my fearless leader as he tried repeatedly to derail the whole thing as only he is able.
I fell out with my mother. We’re mending. Slowly. But it was appallingly emotional and very, very wounding.
I lost my sense of humour.
It’s only looking back that I realized why I ended the year at breaking point. Unable to cope, overwhelmed, and running on empty. No wonder my chemicals are borked.
Amazing that just over 3 months ago I was contemplating convenient ways to initiate my demise. Now I feel like I kicked last year’s arse.
I survived, you motherfucker. Now what?