Today is the first day of the rest of my life.
My fifth counselling session was yesterday morning, an early one at 8.30am. Despite the fact that I'm usually at work by that time, the week of annual leave - including a bank holiday, a wedding and an overnight stop in a cheap hotel near Stafford - I had eyes like a new born kitten as I forced myself to route march to the doctor's surgery; late due to my own irritating habits of procrastination.
Julia, my counsellor, is a great woman: upbeat, intelligent, sympathetic, helpful, strong - everything I would have chosen if I'd designed her myself. She points out the obvious in a way I really need right now. I know that much of my depression can only be alleviated by my own actions and choices, and she has been guiding me to realise that I have it in me to do it.
I do. Deep down I know I do, even though a lot of what I have to do scares me.
I have been able to talk honestly about my fears and feelings, my disappointments and lack of ambition. She has given me renewed confidence, and I have been able to write about my most traumatic experience at the hands of a relative at the age of nine.
My next session will not be for another 6-8 weeks, mostly to give me a chance to try and put into practice some of the changes we have agreed upon, although it's probably also something to do with the NHS and their limited resources. That feels like a long time as I think about it today, but I suppose I should be glad that it's not a repeat of the wait following the referral which was five months, interspersed with monthly appointments with my GP.
I'll take my next steps slowly, hoping that each one takes me forward.