Oxford Street

‘I thought that the moment I said it, that it would be some sort of silver bullet. That suddenly every thought of stress, anxiety, depression, self worth, would all just magically end. That I’d be able to feel normal again and be myself. The truth was that when I said it, my voice broke. I had to say the damn words twice. For some fucked up reason I still was broken even though I’d said what I wanted to say for the last 8 months.’

‘Maybe stress isn’t that simple. Maybe depression isn’t that simple. Did you think about that?’ She taps the side of her glass with the spoon and places it carefully back onto the saucer. ‘These things damage us, repaint us in a new coat that we may not be comfortable or satisfied with, but that’s how mental illness works. One day the wall is green, and then all the sudden you wake up and it’s blue… it won’t be green again until you get the paintbrush out and paint it again.’

He nods and looks at her, placing his palms flat on the table. ‘I’m just… I’m glad it’s over. I’m glad that all the anxiety I created in my head is over.’

‘I hate to tell you, it’s not though. The wall is still going to be blue underneath that new coat. Just don’t forget that also under that blue coat is who you were before. It’s important.’

He smiles, places his right elbow on the table, lifts his palm to his face and leans into it. ‘You’re right. You’re always right.’ He closes his eyes and lets the warmth of the sun in for the first time in as long as he can remember.