This time last year, I was about to spend my last night in Aberdeen. My flatmates had moved out and I had only a suitcase with five days' worth of work clothes and my laptop. The rest of my belongings were in boxes, 60 miles north, in the home of a man I'd met four months ago.
This is yet another topic that forces me to skirt round the elephant in the room. My mum says my writing has become a bottleneck. I have so much to share but current personal circumstances keep me silent for now. One day I will be able to share with you the storms I weathered and why they make this anniversary such a milestone.
I used to fear settling. I moved house every six months, like my biological father did and my paternal great grandmother. In my Aberdeen flat, I didn't even unpack. I have been in this village a year and never want to leave. In fact, I don't think I will.
There's not much I can say about Mike that I haven't said already. My mental health has made this, in some ways, the worst year of my life. He just sails through my crying jags, paranoia and anxieties. Most importantly, he has given me the security of feeling safe in my home. Until you have lived without it, you don't understand what a gift that is.