I thought if I could just pull up these weeds my garden would be perfect. My garden is a patio courtyard, a circle of tiles holding a glass-top table, framed with a square of flagstones, and between the cracks there are ants, woodlice, the occasional worm, and weeds.

Some pick at their faces mindlessly, but I know I am using it to cope with depressive episodes and issues of anxiety in many forms that I have been avoiding for years.

Often there is a glaring gap between who we feel we are and who we want to be.

I’ve imagined death so much it feels like a memory.