Moving In & Mental Health Matt and I moved in together at ..

Moving In & Mental Health

Matt and I moved in together at the end of august; one small stop on the train, one giant leap for a woman who loves living on her own. Our new basement flat is really lovely. It has recently been refurbished, complete with a Quooker (hot water tap), bi-fold doors leading to a little garden, and a glass roof at the end of the living-cum-dining room. When we lounge about sleepily on a Sunday afternoon, we watch the trees swaying in the wind, and listen to the rain pitter-patter-splash. Sometimes squirrels run along the roof, too, which is pretty cute. We’re still renting, but it’s a long lease and I wanted to make it feel as ‘ours’ as possible. I asked for most of the furniture to be removed, in the hopes that I might realise my interior design daydreams. This started off as being very fun and soon became very expensive (read: less fun). I already had some big pieces of furniture, and my parents kindly gave me some pieces that I’ve been pining over forever. Even then, I hadn’t realised quite how much furniture it takes to make a home. As it stands we are short of: a coffee table, a side table, a book shelf, bedside lamps, shelves for the armoire, and other bits and bobs which are slightly less essential. (Less essential to Matt that is, I think a Prada catwalk coffee table book is essential, of course.) Gratefully, Matt and I have the same taste! In so far as I say no whenever he picks something out and he says yes whenever I do. Apart from the time when I (accidentally) spent an eye-watering amount of money on Hydrangeas, and the hiccup of not having Wifi for the first two weeks, everything seems to be running smoothly. I thought living together would be an assault on my freedom. Like Miley (Cyrus), I believed myself to be ‘born to run’ and not belonging to anyone. In practise, I am a creature of habit. I very much enjoy going to bed early, waking up early (unless I’m hungover) and talking to my mum on the phone for hours. Only my imaginary free-spirited-alter-ego took the blow - it transpires in truth, I love the domesticity of having a live-in lover. Still, I feel the loss of some adolescence. We have a drawer with extra toiletries, are always stocked up on cleaning products, and not once have we run out of loo roll. I think it’s the most grown up I have ever felt. Some days Matt goes into the office, but otherwise we sit opposite each other on our favourite find; an old wooden wire reel turned into a dining table, that we found for a steal on Facebook Marketplace. Our jobs couldn’t be more opposite, with Matt newly working in Private Equity and me sat here writing out blog posts for OnlyFans. In between serious phone calls (his) and silly videos (mine), we sometimes play old 90s or 00s playlists and dad-dance in our ‘office’ chairs from behind our screens, with silly grins on our faces. It’s obviously not all rainbows and butterflies like it was in middle school. Sometimes we argue, or can’t be bothered to cook, or forget to buy toothpaste; but for the most part, when we’re together, it always feels like home.

As we all know, the world is a bit weird right now. I myself have been feeling a bit weird lately, too. It’s a quiet oddity, one that I can’t always be sure exists. I feel anxious and then a bit hopeless, and then a bit pointless - and then I forget that it ever happened at all - all of a sudden I feel the same as always. The problem with finding myself fading into a bout of melancholy, is that my job does not lend itself to quietude. When I want to become invisible, I must always be visible. That’s why writing is much safer. I can lounge about amongst the words, unguarded and without the feeling of being watched. Being an ‘influencer’ is to be constantly surveyed, to be presentable and affable and open. Initially I never found this to be a problem, I always used to feel like an open book. If you met me in a club, or in a taxi, or in a Pret, I would’ve garnished your vodka soda lime/uber seat/sandwich with the triumphs and traumas of my little life. Thankfully, I grew up and out of this behaviour. I don’t want to make this too sombre, after all, my natural disposition is sunny and happy and bright. That is unless I am hormonal, or sad, or most recently, this new feeling of being ‘down’. In what I’m going to call ‘exciting news’, I’m starting therapy on Monday. It’s exciting but also quite nerve-wracking. I’m excited to be taking charge of my mental health; something that I thought was perfectly fine, until I considered that maybe it wasn’t. Once I started to take note of how I felt and behaved in certain situations, it suddenly dawned on me that maybe there was a language for those feelings, or a reason for those behaviours. I’m being very vague, but unless I’m feeling it, I can’t for the life of me remember what it’s like.

I’m nervous that I’ll find out I’m definitely a terrible person. That’s my favourite thing to worry about, how awful I am. I then become concerned that it’s narcissistic to worry about how awful I am, and that’s when the googling starts. Google has told me I have all kinds of mental illnesses and that I also have none. Like everyone and anyone, my brain probably needs as much TLC as my body does, and I’m pretty good with that. I try to exercise most days, I drink perhaps too much water and broccoli is usually on the menu for two out of three daily meals. I have said for most of my adult life that I am very ‘lucky’ to have perfect mental health. I’ve said it on my podcast, in interviews, on panels and at the dinner table. I was so comfortable with the sentiment that I never actually questioned why I said it. Privately, I’ve been gently edging towards therapy for some time now. So privately that I almost forget about it until I experience another uncomfortable period, during which I also can’t remember what it felt like to to not feel like that. I’ve done sporadic consultations and researched psychotherapists, only to decide that actually, I’m fine. Even this time I went to cancel my session, when once again, I woke up in the morning feeling like ‘normal’ myself. Thankfully, I have people around me who talk openly and frankly about mental health, who encourage me to not ignore my concerns and not to feel as though going to therapy is a negative thing. As one of my best friends put it ‘it’s such a great journey to be on, because you will discover so much about yourself in an amazing way’. It’s a privilege to umm and ahh about seeking help, and a shame that it can still feel so taboo. I have asked Matt about eight times whether or not I should even write this, after all, who I am to complain?! I have everything! Which is a neat segue into the main thing that stopped me for so long; because, it’s not that bad AND I am so privileged. I have a (rather fetching glass) roof over my head, a supportive network of family and friends, and an impressive collection of gaudy outfits. If anything, I felt like it would somehow be ungrateful if I didn’t have perfect mental health. I haven’t hit rock bottom, I don’t feel as though I am in an awful place, I simply feel like something isn’t quite right. I’m hoping that speaking to someone might give me the tools to be a little bit better at dealing with specific situations, and/or those moments when I don’t remember what ‘normal’ feels like. Right now, I have no idea what to expect, and whether or not I’ll feel better or worse afterward. I’m just going to put on a fab outfit and talk to a stranger about my problems for an hour, (this basically sounds like being in the girls bathroom on a night out - my fave)!

Oenone x