It was September 2009. I was sitting in the centre of Harrogate in a franchise coffee house with a large latté. From my man-bag, I produced a spiral bound notebook and pen.
What was I doing? I was trying to work out what had gone wrong for me. Now don't get me wrong. At this stage in my life, to the casual observer, my life was fantastic. I'd been married for just under a year. I lived in an amazing flat in a picture-perfect town. I was doing a job that I loved - working as a Detective in my local Police force. I had plenty of friends, and social activities keeping me busy. I just couldn't decide why I felt so unhappy.
As I sipped my latté, I considered how I felt. My overwhelming thoughts were those of sadness, confusion, distraction, frustration. It was like a fog had descended over my thoughts, leaving me unclear about who I was...what I was....what my future held. I was 29...I wondered, could these be a sign of age?! Some sort of crisis? Surely not. Was I unhappy in my relationship? I didn't think so. Was I unhappy with my work? Again, I didn't think so. Every other aspect of my life was unchanged, and I'd never been one to crave change for change's sake...only when I was unhappy. It just didn't make sense.
Prior to what seemed like the sudden onset of these thoughts, I'd been very much the confident, outgoing, gregarious individual. I grasped even the most difficult tasks and processes with ease, and was considered a good operative at work. Now, I shied away even from light conversation and small talk, disappearing into my own thoughts in the hope that things would come clear. Speaking to people was becoming ever-harder to me. Concentrating on my cases, and completing simple tasks becoming more arduous. "What's wrong with me?!!" I ranted to myself.
I opened my newly purchased notebook...I'd elected to try writing my thoughts and feelings down - my brain on paper. I was struggling to focus for more than a few moments, so thought if there was a continual thread and record to my thoughts, I might do better.
I removed the cap from my pen, and decided to start with the date. S-E-P-scribble-scribble-scribble. I looked at what I'd written. It looked like I'd got bored half way through the word, and like a Doctor's signature, decided to just scribble the less important bit. As a bit of a perfectionist, I wasn't prepared for the first word on the first page of my notebook - my brain on paper - to be crossed out and re-written. I tore the perforated page from the book, screwed it up, and tries again. "Take two", I said to myself remembering an out-take from I song I'd heard years earlier. I pictured the word in my head that I wanted to write, and started again. This time my pen touched the paper, and in a more controlled, purposeful manner, I started to write again. S-E-P-scribble-scribble-scribble. Nonsense. I became frustrated at myself, as I tore another page from the book, and tried again. The same result. I tried once moire, again with the same result. After six attempts at the word September, all with the same result, and an increasingly large pile of screwed up paper in front of me, I decided I was in the wrong frame of mind, and would only get worse if I persevered. I put my book away, re-capped my biro, and tried to relax with my coffee. There was something wrong. The screwed up pieces of paper went some way to represent how I felt, and I had no idea what was wrong with me...and it would only be months later that I would find what I was looking for. This, it would transpire, was the first piece of a puzzle that would change my life forever.
I got home later that afternoon, and out of curiosity, tried writing September again. I wrote it first time, and wrote my experience off as a bad day.
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