By Anne Brennan in Independent.ie.
Five years ago, I was flying high: I was a partner in my Dublin law firm, a zealous skier, an untalented tag-rugby player. I taught yoga in the evenings and at weekends, never missed a party.
I love live music and often stood for hours waiting to see Justin, Robbie, Bowie, Beyoncé or George Michael. When Eminem played, I hopped on a bus to Punchestown along with 40 or so teenagers.
Then, overnight, everything became a struggle. I collapsed into bed after I got home in the evenings, dragged myself out of bed to go to work the next day. In a permanent state of exhaustion, I began to cancel things. The yoga went first – it was too physically demanding for my poor aching muscles. I cried off drinks and get-togethers. I stopped answering the phone – talking to my friends was beyond my depleted resources. All I thought about was lying down. In a quiet room. Alone.
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