“Just get over it, Colin.”

Life is far from over. I know that. But that doesn’t make returning to a university hall room at 33 years old any easier.

It’s hard to believe it’s only been seven days since I saw my brother, Connor and my dear friend Chloe. For a few days, everything melted away. I was more than bipolar. I felt confident in myself and, however unjustified it may have been, confident in how I looked. Most importantly, I felt enough.

The rollercoasters, arcades, ice creams and fish and chips are the perfect British backdrop for seeing friends and family. The seaside has a way of washing everything away and, for the longest time, Great Yarmouth was my backdrop.

It’s difficult, isn’t it? Knowing whether you’re living in the moment or quietly chasing ghosts around familiar corners.

Looking back, I think I hoped the trip would give me something back. Or perhaps leave me with a spark; something I could carry home and use to ignite my life into something new and, if I’m honest, something a bit brilliant.

Instead, I came home with something else.

The realisation that what I miss most isn’t Great Yarmouth at all.

It’s the simple things.

A hug.

Conversation without a filter.

Being able to say whatever comes into your head and knowing you won’t be judged for it.

Being allowed to be an absolute tit.

Those things should be part of everyday life. For many people they are. For me, and for many others, they aren’t.

The space that leaves behind can feel enormous.

I spend a lot of time spending money trying to escape myself. Being human, I have an unfortunate habit of following myself around, so it never works for very long.

But for those few days, I didn’t need to do any of that.

I didn’t need an attraction, a project, a train ticket or a distraction.

I just had to turn up.

That was enough.

It sounds like such a small thing, but I feel that incredibly rarely in London.

Back in halls, the old thoughts returned almost immediately.

Every unfinished plan feels bigger than it is. Every setback feels more permanent than it probably is. I look at myself and see someone who should have done more by now, someone still trying to put pieces back together that other people seem to have assembled years ago.

Rationally, I know that’s not the full picture.

Emotionally, it’s much harder to argue with.

Even doing the washing at university requires military organisation. Everything here happens on someone else’s terms.

London is a strange contradiction. It is one of the busiest cities in the world, yet it can be an incredibly lonely place to live.

Peace and quiet, amidst the performance and pretence of city life, can feel impossible to come by. There’s always someone making themselves known. Another queue. Another conversation. Another demand on your attention.

The strange thing is that I often enjoy disappearing into all of that. London offers a certain anonymity if you let it. You can become just another face in the crowd.

But it never lasts for long.

Sooner or later, you’re pulled into somebody else’s bubble.

I couldn’t really afford the trip.

My friend helped me get there and, in the days since coming home, I’ve found myself wondering whether it would have been better if it had been cancelled altogether. There certainly would have been less heartache. Perhaps I wouldn’t feel quite so drained now.

But I don’t think that’s true.

The trip didn’t create these feelings.

It exposed them.

For a few days, I was reminded what it feels like to be around people who know me. To laugh without thinking. To talk without filtering every sentence. To feel like my presence alone was enough.

Coming back didn’t leave a hole.

It showed me one that was already there.

That’s a far less comfortable realisation.

It’s also probably a more useful one.

You’d think, being a writer, that the words would come easily.

Instead, every time I’ve sat down to write about this trip, I’ve shut down completely.

The heart feels exposed. The stomach knots. Even my toes curl.

Writing makes things real.

As long as the thoughts stay in my head, they remain fluid. Unfinished. Open to interpretation. The moment they land on a page, they’re forced to become something concrete.

And I don’t think I’ve wanted to admit what this trip was really about.

I don’t want to be a victim.

I don’t want to wallow.

I don’t want to spend weeks mourning a seaside town, a few days with friends, or a version of my life that no longer exists.

But here we are.

The truth is that I don’t think I’m heartbroken because I left Great Yarmouth.

I think I’m heartbroken because I came back to exactly the same problems I left with.

For a few days, I could forget them.

Now I can’t.

And for the life of me, I don’t know how to get out of my own head.