On a freezing day in December, I chose to do something that my mother had always warned me against. For everyone’s safety – primarily my own, but more on that later – I have decided that this shall be my last ever column.

Why, you ask? Did I get too caught up in the hazy world of print journalism? Did I lose myself in the sex, drugs and cosy offices on Mill Lane? Did my column come to its natural end because it’s now Easter term and there are other people who want to write about things?

No, no and no. It’s because of me. I’m waving goodbye to this column as I would my fondest friend. Me. For you see, this column has been largely about me. I, Rhiannus. Admittedly, it’s been about me and my brain, but that was only after Varsity turned down my column about my battle with athlete’s foot.

What my mother feared all those months ago has come true. She was right to think it would be all me, me, me. It has all got a bit self-centred, this ‘my opinions and my experiences’ malarkey. So, it’s time I returned to my real life. Time to ditch the print deadlines and go back to barely thinking about myself and my brain and stuff.

Kidding! Well, this is my last column, but I can assure you that my addled mind will still be a major part of my life. Its lovable antics just keep me coming back for more! More psychoanalysis, more self-reproach, more theorising about my various troubles! The show doesn’t end here, folks, and you can get my weekly mental health updates for a one-time payment of £19.99!

Or maybe you could come to the doctors with me. Or cycle down to the University Counselling Service in the rain. Or stand outside a class with me and help me explain, snot pouring from my nose, that I can’t do the presentation I prepared for because my brain kind of feels like it’s melting.

Actually, please don’t. That would be weird, I barely know you, and talking about my mental health in real life is ridiculously hard and embarrassing. I guess I’m just trying to point out that writing this column has been very different to how I have previously related to my mental health.

And, yeah, I say ‘my mental health’ because, though I hope people have found my column relatable and maybe even helpful, it’s really been most cathartic for me. Perhaps it has been entirely selfish.

But it’s so hard to get out of your head when you’re unwell. It’s hard to see yourself as part of a bigger picture, or even to see beyond the mental illness that has coloured your world view for however long. I think writing like this can help extricate the ‘real you’ (cue montage of a lady flipping her hair and smiling while eating Special K) from the ‘depressed you’.

I’ve come to realise that a depressed person is really the most self-centred of all, not because they forget to put other people’s needs first or are particularly nasty, or whatever, but because they can’t see themselves in context.

Their pain seems unique and unassailable because representations of real depression and anxiety are so few and far between. So they draw into themselves and finally end up blaming themselves, coming to think that they are the same as their illness and thus can never feel better.

That’s why it’s so essential to get talking about mental health like it’s just another aspect of life. And when I say ‘just’ I don’t mean to belittle anyone’s experience.

Depression and anxiety are never ‘just’ anything. They’re overwhelming and horrifying, but they’re also far more common than most people fully appreciate, and that’s why this ridiculous, outdated social taboo is so damaging. It makes people feel isolated.

It makes this column particularly unusual when, in reality, one in four of us will be affected by mental illness in any given year. It transforms a reasonably dull young woman, who is really just talking about herself and her experiences, into someone who’s ‘brave’. I’m not brave. I’m just talking about something that any person should be able to talk about.

I’ve really loved writing this column. I’ve loved writing about my brain in a way that makes it feel like any other brain that has gone through a rough patch and can pull through. I’ve loved that it’s just another article on the website, or just another share on a Facebook feed.

I mean, I dig racking up the likes as much as anyone, but perhaps it’s been way healthier for my ego to admit that, hey, I’m not as weird as I thought I was.
I’m just someone who was sick and is getting better.