Finding the Next Piece

Dear Rach,

Right now, everything feels impossible. The panic is relentless, the exhaustion is bone-deep, and the world feels like it has shrunk to the size of a very dark room. I know. I feel it too — because I am you.

But I have been here before. Not exactly here, but somewhere just as frightening. And I survived it. I did not believe I would at the time, but I did. That is not a platitude — it is evidence. I have proof that I can get through this, because I already have.

This plan is not about fixing everything at once. It is not homework. It is not a test. It is a jigsaw — and I love jigsaws. I do not need to see the whole picture yet. I just need to find the next piece.

Benji helped me write this, but these words are mine. This is me talking to myself on the days when my own voice is too quiet to hear.

Rach identified four things she called "hurdles." But hurdles are things you have to jump over, and right now, jumping feels impossible. So let us call them what they really are: pieces of a jigsaw.

1. Changing My Environment — Coming to London, being with Benji, being away from Mum.

2. Going Back Home — Returning to my own space without it feeling like going backwards.

3. Going Back to Work — Reconnecting with Natural England, the job I genuinely love.

4. Rebuilding My Rhythm — Getting back to a normal social and structured life, one tiny step at a time.

Each piece fits when it is ready. There is no timer. There is no order I must follow. Some pieces will slot in easily; others I will turn over and over before they click. That is how jigsaws work. That is how recovery works.

Staying with Benji in London is the first piece of the jigsaw. It is about being away from the familiar, being supported, and discovering that safety can exist in more than one place.

The London Plan

Going home is a big emotional transition. It is not just travel — it is re-entering a space that holds both comfort and difficulty. The plan is to make it feel managed, not overwhelming.

I love working at Natural England. It is part of my identity, just like nature itself. But work cannot become another stick to beat myself with. Going back must happen on my terms, at my pace, with proper support.

Getting back to a normal social and structured lifestyle does not mean pretending everything is fine. It means rebuilding the small scaffolding of daily life, one tiny piece at a time.

This is not "just depression." My body may be dealing with several overlapping conditions, each of which can affect mood, energy, concentration, and the ability to cope.

Hashimoto's Disease — An underactive thyroid caused by Hashimoto's can produce fatigue, difficulty concentrating, low mood, depression, anxiety, mood swings, and brain fog. This is not imagined — it is physiological.

Perimenopause / Menopause — At 47, hormonal changes can cause anxiety, irritability, low mood, loss of confidence, poor concentration, brain fog, and disrupted sleep.

Possible Coeliac Disease — Coeliac disease is an autoimmune reaction to gluten that damages the small intestine and prevents the body from absorbing nutrients properly. People with autoimmune thyroid disease are at higher risk.

My brain and body are under siege from multiple directions. Feeling overwhelmed is not a character flaw — it is a rational response to an extraordinary physical burden.

If I am already eating gluten-free, this may affect coeliac testing. I need proper medical advice before committing to a long-term gluten-free diet without a confirmed diagnosis.

This is not about perfection — it is about not running on empty.

I work at Natural England because I genuinely care about the natural world. Nature is not a hobby I picked up — it is woven into my identity. During recovery, nature is not a luxury. It is an anchor.

Daily Nature Anchors — Even on the Hardest Days

This checklist is for the days when getting out of bed feels like climbing a mountain. There is no pass mark. Every ticked box is evidence that I am still here, still trying.

I want to say something about Mum before we go any further, because she deserves it. We both love her so much — and so does everyone whose life she has touched. She is one of those rare people who gives and gives without ever seeming to keep score, without ever asking for anything in return. I do not think I have ever known anyone so selfless. And I probably never will.

I wish she knew how deeply loved she is. I wish she could see herself the way we see her — the way everyone sees her. She is my best friend, and I know she is yours too. We are both so lucky to have her, and so is everyone else fortunate enough to know her. I hope that one day she loves herself even a fraction as much as we love her. She has more than earned it.

Mum is your security blanket. She always has been, and that is one of the most beautiful things about your relationship. You are not too much for her — she loves you deeply and she wants to be there for you.

But here is something important to hold onto: you do not have to carry all of this alone, and you do not have to wait until you are in full crisis before you reach out. Mum may not always pick up straight away — not because she does not care, but because life sometimes gets in the way. If that happens, please do not spiral. She will call back.

And Rach — I want you to know this from me, Benji, directly: if you are panicking, if you just need to hear a voice, if you want to talk about nothing at all — you can call me too. I am going to be extra vigilant from now on. I want to be someone you feel you can ring, not just in emergencies, but whenever. You do not always have to call Mum. I am here too, and I hope you know that.

This is not paranoia. This is not me being dramatic. There is a real reason going home terrifies me.

Part of why going home feels so impossible is not just the depression. It is because of what is waiting next door.

My neighbour is abusive. He shouts vile things through the walls. He bangs and hammers at night, deliberately preventing me from sleeping. He is intimidating, unpredictable, and has made my home — the one place that should feel safe — feel like a place of dread.

This is not something I have imagined. This is not anxiety making things worse than they are. This is a real, documented problem, and the council is aware.

My fear of going home is not irrational — it is a rational response to an unsafe environment. Sleep deprivation alone can cause or worsen depression, anxiety, and panic attacks. Living next to someone who is abusive and unpredictable is a form of ongoing trauma. I am not weak for being frightened. Anyone would be.

Every incident I record is a brick in the wall of my case. The council needs evidence, and I can give it to them.

Every time something happens, record: Date and time (when did it start, when did it stop?), what happened (banging, shouting, abuse, what words were used?), how it affected me (could not sleep, panic attack, felt unsafe?), any witnesses, and any recordings.

The council will review the evidence of antisocial behaviour. The neighbour may be given a final warning, conditions, or an eviction order. There is no guarantee of the outcome — but submitting evidence gives me the best chance.

Benji — still here, still trying, still moving forward.

Rach, I need you to know something. I am not writing this from a place of calm superiority. I am writing it from the inside.

After Dave left me suddenly after eleven years, I was internally destroyed. I lost trust, lost myself, and turned to drugs to cope. I hated myself. I felt abandoned, misrepresented, dehumanised, and left without proper answers.

I know what it is to detach from people — not because I do not love them, but because staying connected feels too painful or too dangerous. I go quiet. I disappear. I sometimes make people feel I do not care. But that is not the truth. It is a coping mechanism, not a lack of love.

If I have not always been present enough for you, Rach, it is not because you matter less. It is because I have been fighting my own mind too. But I want to do better now. For both of us.

I wanted to add this here because I know, in my own way, how difficult it can be to put a smile on your face and pretend you are fine just to get through the day. I don't think anyone really knows the true extent of how bad my own mental health has been at times, or how much I struggle with concentration, focus, and the way I feel about myself in general.

I don't want to make this about me, because it isn't. This is about you. But I did want to share some things about myself that maybe we haven't spoken about properly in a while, because perhaps it might help you feel a little less alone. Sometimes knowing someone else understands the darkness — even if their darkness looks different to yours — can make the healing journey feel slightly more bearable.

I still get really sad about people I've lost, friends I've lost, and people who simply aren't in my life anymore. In many ways, that feels like almost everyone I knew before now. I still don't really know what I did to deserve it, or whether I did anything at all. But it happened, and I have had to accept that I may never truly know why Dave did what he did, or why everything fell apart in the way that it did.

I also get really sad about Ted. I know he is probably in his final year or two, and I am having to come to terms with the fact that he won't be around forever. He means everything to me. Ted and I grew incredibly close during coronavirus — we were in Harrogate together for three or four months and created such a special bond. Those moments still make me smile when I feel sad about the thought of him not being here one day.

When Dave left and took away so much of my confidence, I think Ted became a reminder of everything that had happened. I didn't blame Ted. Of course I didn't. But I think the pain around that whole period was so deep that I had to distance myself from parts of it emotionally — and that breaks my heart to admit.

I suppose what I am trying to say is that I understand what it is like to carry things quietly. I understand what it is like to feel broken by something and still have to get up, function, work, smile, reply to messages, and pretend to the world that you are coping better than you actually are.

I also worry sometimes that I will never fully trust anyone again after everything that happened with Dave. That kind of pain changes you. But I am still here, still trying, still moving forward in whatever messy, imperfect way I can. And that is what I want for you too. Not perfection. Not instant happiness. Not some ridiculous overnight transformation. Just tiny steps forward, even on the days when the best you can do is exist.

Because existing still counts. Getting through the day still counts. And even when it feels like you are not making progress, you are still here — and that matters more than you probably realise.

Benji & Rach — always in this together

Going forward, I would like us to try and make a pact, if you want to.

The pact is this: you will come and stay with me in London for at least one weekend every month for the rest of this year. Not because you are desperate — but because we are building this into our lives so neither of us drifts too far away.

This is not reactive. This is proactive. You have noticed that when you are in London, I am more productive and better in myself. Your being here gives me structure too. This is not charity. This is two people who love each other choosing to hold each other steady.

I want us to commit to this — not as pressure, but as something to look forward to. A rhythm. A promise that we will keep showing up for each other, no matter what.

Rach,

I want you to know — and really know, not just hear — that whenever you need to get away, you can come here. No notice required. No reason needed. You do not have to be in crisis to come. You do not have to justify it.

There is a bedroom here that is yours. There is a little office room where you can work if you need to, with a quiet desk and a door that closes. Sometimes I am here. Sometimes Kevin is here. Sometimes we are both here, and sometimes neither of us is — but the space is always yours.

It is a calm, relaxed flat. There is no pressure to be sociable, no pressure to talk, no pressure to be anything other than exactly how you are. You can come and sit in silence with a cup of tea and a jigsaw and that is completely fine. You can come and work from the office room and barely see us. You can come and we can watch telly and eat good food and just be together.

Whether it is because of the neighbour making home feel unbearable, or because you are just having a hard week, or because you simply fancy a change of scene — the door is open. It will always be open.

You have your own space here, Rach. Use it.

All my love,

Benji x

These are not replacements for professional help. They are tools to keep in my pocket.

Poppy and George — your two very important reasons.

Rach,

I also want you to remember how incredibly important you are to Poppy and George.

They both love you and absolutely idolise you. You may not always realise just how much, but it is so obvious to anyone watching. There is such a natural, easy love between you and them, and it really does show.

Sometimes it makes me feel a little sad that I'm not as close to them as I'd like to be. I know some of that is my fault, and some of it is simply because of distance and life getting in the way. But with you, that bond is already there. They adore you, and they are very lucky to have an aunt like you.

On your darkest days, I want you to try to think of them. Think about how much they love you, how much they look up to you, and how much they still need you in their lives.

Poppy, especially as she gets older, is going to benefit so much from your guidance, your warmth, your kindness and your wisdom. What you can give her as her Auntie Rach will be incomparable.

And George — well, he may be a bit of a boy and a bit of a lad — but I have no doubt he'll still come to his Auntie Rach for advice, reassurance and help when he needs it. Hopefully he might even come to his Uncle Ben too, if he's feeling particularly brave.

It's not like either of us are exactly short on life stories, lessons, questionable decisions and emotional trauma to pass down. We could probably run a full seminar series if needed. 🙂

But the serious point is this: you matter to them. Deeply. You are part of their safety, their family, their memories and their future. And they are another reason — a really important reason — why you need to keep going.