It's graduation week at my old haunt of The University of Essex (oh yes, Little Miss Northern over here studied down there until just over a year ago. Oh, the south. CLEANSE ME. But I digress) and oh my, is it affecting me. This is actually my third attempt at writing about it, because everything I write either sounds bitter or self-pitying, or both. I'm not bitter. I don't begrudge a single person their degree or their mental health, but I'd be lying if I said I'm not jealous, so maybe that does mean I'm self pitying. I don't know. All I know is I should be in my pyjamas, planning an early night and working out exactly how much vodka I need to be able to walk in heals (a feat I'm capable of only after a few bevvies), without being even tipsy enough to dull my senses on such a day. Instead, I'm in my pyjamas knowing that tomorrow my name will not be called, and wouldn't be even if I wasn't a few hundred miles away. I'm in my pyjamas knowing tomorrow will be yet another beige day.
Not being able to finish my degree is a source of embarrassment and anger, to me. Apart from what came down to a few weeks last year, I've now been in hospital almost a year. That's... well, that's summat, alright.
I need to stop writing, I'm getting upset and it's not like it's going to get me my degree. It's also triggering my OCD, which is really dangerous... genuinely life threatening, the forms that mine takes. This is an awful post, but I suppose it's how I feel and I can't keep typing and deleting, over and over. End. Fin.