A couple of weeks ago my mum asked me if I was happy. She asks me this regularly, I guess since for a while I was really unhappy. I replied in a typical teenage fashion (ignore the fact that I haven’t been a teenager for a couple of years now). In a very unenthusiastic voice I told her I was okay and I was getting by. Later that night I realised I hadn’t exactly answered her question. She asked me if I was happy, which is actually a simple yes or no question.
So I started writing this post about two weeks ago but my sister, my toughest critic and editor (more like I force her to read it because my grammar is atrocious when I’m typing), kept telling me it wasn’t personal enough. She kept saying that I needed to give more of myself. You know what? She was 300% correct! I dislike discussing how much of a recluse I used to be, and still am, if I am being honest. I’ve always been embarrassed by it.