Two Days, Two Minds

It has been two days since I took those photos, and looking back at them now I can see exactly what I was trying to tell myself even if I didn’t realise it at the time.

There’s a guilt in sitting still, doing nothing. And I have. I’ve laid here on my bed all day. Abject failure. Or at least, that’s the first narrative my brain lunged for.

But two days ago, walking through Thames Barrier Park with the camera, I felt like I was back to me again. Curious, creative, Colin.

After a few walks and a few healthy meals, I found myself in the lens again. A whole world away from the humdrum of trying to build a life I can be proud of after years of self-destruction and pain.

The camera does not judge me. Not even when the photos are not great, and there are hundreds destined never to see daylight.

The world is my playground the camera my friend and the career imaginary for now but it is what keeps me moving. A grounding force. A reminder that I need to be outside doing the thing that makes me happy, instead of lying still wishing I had.

Today’s stomach ache should not feel catastrophic but my brain made it into an epic failure. I was awake, ready, coffee made, cereal eaten. I genuinely thought it would pass.

And when it did not, when the pain was sharp and real I did the responsible thing. I emailed work immediately. I did not hide. I did not avoid. I showed up in the only way I could.

But the bipolar part of me does not always accept that. It twists it. Loud. Oppressive. Almost violent in the way it digs at me. I know it is not true but that does not stop the narrative forming.

I spiralled into comparisons that were not even mine.

“People are starving.”

“There are bombs falling.”

“Who am I to complain about two pizza subs a packet of crisps and a Big Eat chocolate bar.”

It is a coping mechanism pretending to be perspective. A way of telling myself I do not deserve to feel what I feel. A way of invalidating my own experience before anyone else gets the chance.

But none of that came from other people.

Those thoughts were not spoken to me.

They were planted by me.

And here is the truth I am clinging to now that the storm has calmed:

One unhealthy meal did not undo a week of good work.

One sick day did not erase my progress.

One wobble did not destroy who I am becoming.

My story is just as important as the ones I will go on to tell. My experiences have weight. My recovery has value. My voice has worth.

No matter how many times I have stumbled no matter how uneven or messy the path has been there will always be another sunrise to capture. Something beautiful waiting.

A purpose.

Tomorrow I pick up the camera put it in my bag and do the thing that makes me happiest.

Tomorrow, I get back to me.