I could make a long list of things that have made me cry when in reality they were far too insignificant to result in even a downturned mouth, let alone full-on tears and histrionics but it would take too long and, frankly, be far too embarrassing.
However, yesterday I started crying because a friend of mine told me she had been seeing someone for a while and it was getting serious. She was so happy and I was happy for her. I didn’t cry for any vaguely understandable reason. I don’t have a secret love for my friend or her boyfriend. She didn’t tell me she was moving halfway across the world with him and I’d never see her again. I’ve never met the guy but as far as I know he is not abusive or married or in any other state that would make me feel her choice was poor or dangerous.
I cried because it’s the latest event in a long line of events that serve to remind me that life is leaving me behind. My friends are completing masters courses and PhDs and embarking on new careers. They are getting married and buying homes and having babies. They are buying dogs, taking sabbaticals to head off round the world, going to festivals and taking pictures of hand-holding sunsets.
And meanwhile, I sit in my room watching Netflix and snivelling. Sure, I make plans but nothing can come of them because depression has left me a plasticine mound of uselessness. So I clamber into bed as early as I can justify, click on Netflix and read guidebooks to places I have no energy to go to, research courses I will never take and careers I will never have and life speeds past.