One, two, three… I stood in front of a mirror counting the moles that freckled my thighs. Was that one there before? Has that one got bigger? Six… seven… I was exhausted. This was the fourth time that day I’d stood in the bathroom at work inspecting my body.

I returned to my desk, my boss throwing me a sideways glance. I was certain he was counting how many times I’d been to the loo. This wasn’t new: since the start of university, I’d been developing anxiety and OCD symptoms that had become progressively worse. It started with small things, such as needing to know the exact timings when meeting someone, to more horrific and irrational thoughts.

I can’t quite pinpoint how it all started, those years feel like a distant blur to me. But I remember my first panic attack, sitting on my single bed in my tiny box room of the uni halls. My entire body was tingling, and I felt like I was going to pass out. I began banging on the paper-thin wall between my bedroom and my housemate’s. “I’m dying,” I yelped at him.

“Health anxiety drove me to a breakdown until a therapist made me come to terms with my own death”