It’s been almost a whole year since I left. A relationship and a house I still struggle to find the language to describe. I told a friend, over a year ago, about the gaslighting and the blame, the accusations and the good intentions. My friend said, if it smells like shit and it tastes like shit, it doesn’t really matter if it actually is shit. Just get out of there.

And I did. I left the abuse that I still hesitate to call abuse, although it almost broke me, although it mirrored much of what I experienced growing up: trauma that was inflicted intentionally, deliberately.

I wound up homeless and broke, with no income. My best friend gave me a floor to sleep on and the support I needed to survive the end of the year. I fluctuated from lost and hopeless to giddy with freedom. I had my life back, all mine, though I needed to work to remember who I was and how I'd changed.

It took me a few months but I got a job and a regular paycheck. My friend’s housemate up and left suddenly, a decision made mostly because of my presence in the house but not one discussed with either of us. We made a small home out of the wreckage I seemed to have spread. Last month, eleven months after leaving, I found a place of my own, one of my choosing and one that feels, at last, like home.

I finally have a foundation beneath me but stability still feels far out of reach. Maybe this is something I’ll always feel, with trauma and mental illness and the emotional lability that comes with them. Still, I see friends and acquaintances succeeding, meeting their ambitions, and I feel like I’m lagging. I remember how much further I have to go to match their paces.

Look, my various neuroses mean I pretty much always feel inadequate. I’m never good enough, never achieving enough, never stable enough. None of this is unusual for me and I know a bunch of my friends feel the same way. It’s a core component of living in a competitive, capitalist society.

So I’m taking a moment to remember that the playing field isn’t level for everyone, to acknowledge that some of us need to work harder to reach our goals and find security. It’s OK to struggle, especially if you’re someone from a marginalised community, and if you’ve experienced abuse and trauma.

I’ve spent entire weeks in bed, incapable of doing anything beyond watching telly and feeding the cat. There was a time last year when I was too anxious to leave the house. For a month, maybe longer, I had panic attacks at the front door. I took small steps forward; go onto the porch, walk down to the post office, survive the trip to the tube station. I remember feeling disappointed in myself; why couldn’t I do these simple things that most people manage to do every single day?

But I was falling apart back then and I wasn’t coping. That’s the worst - and most physical - my anxiety has ever gotten. My mood and emotions would swing wildly in that house. I never had enough money, I was always running low on spoons. I would sob every day for two weeks, then feel numb and empty for four. I kept trying to find the solution, I kept trying to fix it, but some things aren’t problems. Some things are just traps.

This year, I realised that - for me - healing isn’t about not hurting any more. It’s about coping and survival, and taking better care of myself. It’s about seeing the red flags and choosing to step away instead of just painting them another colour. It’s about letting myself feel whatever the fuck I’m feeling, and not hating myself for being sad or lost or angry. It’s about allowing myself to be happy and hopeful, without guilt.

It’s only been a year. I don’t know if I’ve healed yet but I know I’m getting there. I’m re-learning to value myself and to be patient. It’s OK to have bad days and it’s OK to have unhealthy coping mechanisms while I figure out what the healthy ones look like. It’s OK to not be where I expected by now.

I’m making plans for my future that go beyond the basics of find a home, find a job, don’t love shitty people. I know what works for me and what doesn’t and I know I’m going to make more bad choices and I know that, for me, stability doesn’t last. There’ll be more setbacks and I’m always going to struggle to do all the things I want, because some days it feels pointless to leave the house or see people I care about or self-care.

But: I’ve survived so far. I still have a long way to go and most of it is an uphill struggle, but with every poor decision, every escape, every new trauma, I’ve become more capable. I don’t know if I’ll ever feel good enough, but somewhere, deep down, I know that I am. We often devalue emotional labour and the work that we put into daily, mundane tasks. If you haven’t got your degree, your comfortable salary, your filled shelves, you haven’t got any worth. But surviving matters too, whether it’s in a system and society that wants to keep you from succeeding and breathing, or a relationship that rotted, or whatever it is that makes it difficult and heavy just to take another step forward.

November has always been my favourite month of the year. It’s when I feel closest to nature, with the leaves and the weather turning, and you can feel the air in your bones. November is the month I left, and it’s the month I started again.

Heavy Machinery is written by Zainabb Hull and powered by breaking the cycle and lonely trees.

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