Moving Back to London When You Hate London and You Have Anxiety

I know, right? What a great title.  So short, so catchy, so succinct, so to the point.

That aside, I probably hate London because it's kind of the place I went my worst insane (insane is probably slightly hyperbolic, but I felt insane and I'm really dramatic, so it counts).  London is where I was when I started getting the most intense panic attacks of my entire life.  London is where it all went wrong and I felt crazy alone and miserable, when half the reason I moved there was to get away from all that (and I was running away from a boy).  I guess my avoidance problems started ages ago, who knew?  Regardless,  London is when I realised I was really not okay and that it wasn't just going to go away.

That was 2015/2016.  At the end of my first year, I ran away again, to Mexico this time and had a really good but also really terrible time.  Something bad happened, and I came home a mess.  I spent all summer really depressed, I started therapy again and when autumn swung around I realised I wasn't ready to move back to London.  The thought of being back there, being away from my therapist (who turned out not to be a great therapist anyway), being away from my dogs and my support system, just seemed like too much.  For that reason (and because financially it appeared to make sense), I commuted 2 hours, twice a week, from Somerset to London for a semester.  Then, after Christmas, I moved to Seattle for my semester abroad and all sorts of things went wrong all over again, but that's not really the point of this post.

The point is, London... Not really a fan.

So moving back to London this summer, wasn't exactly exciting, especially after the months I spent abroad, living my best life (despite the depression and anxiety) and discovering that England is probably not the country for me.  Regardless, I do want to finish my degree... kind of (that's another post altogether). So, I'm back.

I moved back to London in August this year, into a little flat in Waterloo.  More expensive than I would've liked but close enough to walk to uni and therefore avoid the risk of having an intense panic attack on the way to a lecture and consequently crying throughout the duration of it or not going at all.

When I returned from America, I whinged excessively about being stuck in the middle of a field (my parent's house) in Somerset, basically on house arrest since my car isn't currently in its most functional state and even if it were, how would I afford to insure it? But, I was so cautious of coming back to London.  Anxiety etc. aside, I guess it's never really felt right... I couldn't tell you what it was about the place, because there are for sure things I do like about it, but it never feels like home.  At this point though, where even is home? I feel homesick for at least 4 places right now, all in very different parts of the world... so maybe this is my issue.

The journey itself was unpleasant, sitting between two carriages of the train from Taunton to London, feeling the breeze of umm.. "fresh" country air, which had an extra manure-y scent that day, with bits of dust and probably straw blowing into my face from underneath the train.  I sat on the floor against my huge backpack and suitcase, right by the doorway, meaning I had to stand up to let people out every time the train stopped, which was annoying, because I was actually really comfortable.  In addition to that, I was using my laptop as a means to charge my iPhone, which was hanging on by the cable on top of my crossed legs, making the whole affair just that extra bit awkward.

The only reason I had to charge it so often was because it needed a new battery.  That battery was fucked.  I foolishly believed that my phone was invincible, it must've been dropped at least fifty times and not a scratch on the screen... but apparently, dropping your phone on the pavement repeatedly can damage other parts of it.  It's what's on the inside that counts etc. etc. etc.

I 100% couldn't afford a new battery (Hello Dad), in fact I really can't afford London at all and I low-key regret choosing to study here.  I mean, honestly, when I think about how much this year is costing me it makes me feel physically very uneasy.  Then I start to think about how I'm going to afford to leave the country as soon as my degree is completed...  I keep telling everyone I'm going to go, but I'm not entirely sure how I think that's going to happen, with my limited income right now.  Limited is a generous term, my income is borderline non-existent, especially since I fucked up and didn't sign a thing for student finance so I'm still kind of waiting for all that to go through (Hey dad, me again).

I want to get a job, but let's be real for a second - at this point in my life - I'm pretty much scared of everything.  Okay, no, I'm not.  I am a badass BUT my anxiety is a complete pussy who can't even get on a bus 50% of the time and unfortunately, she has become a part of me that I just have to live with for a while.  I'm honestly not sure how she survived that train journey, because I was literally stuck between carriages for two hours, surrounded by people, and she was chill as fuck.  It was a ridiculously crowded train with no stops for most of the journey and she just didn't care.  Maybe she was sleeping...  Maybe I should stop personifying my anxiety because it makes me sound even more insane.

Her name's Annie, by the way.  Anxious Annie, bezzie mates with Depression Debbie.

Jamie, stop.

Anyway, although Annie was out at the shops, or strangling puppies, or whatever it is she does in her spare time... she did make a brief appearance before I left the house that morning.

I think I was just a bit nervous about it all, which is honestly totally normal and natural, when you think about it. However, for various reasons, I don't like to admit that I'm scared of ANYTHING, even to myself.  Partly because I travel a lot on my own and I'm not really scared of that, alongside having had cancer at sixteen, I've grown really accustomed to people calling me brave.

The other thing is, it’s so strange when I think about it.  At the end of last year, I left the country with nowhere to live, in a city where I didn't know anyone and I wasn't really scared of that.   Yet, moving into a flat in London where I have friends and I’ve been several times before, made me kind of a mess.  It just doesn't make sense, but the thing I've come to learn about anxiety is that it often doesn't make sense.  Fear is not rational.

I think part of it is the permanence of the situation.  I’m - medically speaking - a commitmentphobe, and that includes being terrified of the one year lease on my apartment.  Wait, who am I?  Still semi-American apparently.  What I meant, of course, was the one year contract on my flat.  Is that what English people say?  I don't remember.

The first week I was hardly sleeping and I was stressing a lot, because what the hell was I doing in a city I don't like, doing a course I'm not really sure about anymore and doesn't even start for another couple of months?  What was I doing, really?  Apart from lying around my flat, writing stuff that I wasn't going to let anyone read - does that make it sound like I was writing porn?  I wasn't, that is not what was happening...

I was just not living my best life this summer.

I didn't want to get a job, because the only thing I'm really qualified for is retail and working in retail made me want to kill myself... I'm not being dramatic.  I literally wanted to die.  Quitting my supermarket job that made me completely miserable was one of the best things I've ever done for myself.

I couldn't go to the gym, because of my back/hip injury thing.  I didn't do much at all.  I just existed... and then stopped taking my antidepressants and existed even more miserably.