Having grown up fighting a constant battle against a plethora of mental health disorders, for the best part of my entire life, it is in fact but one specific breakdown to which I owe the brand.

Despite the many gruelling years of depression, addiction, anxiety, paranoia, exhaustion, insomnia, and all the other monotonous crap that comes with it, unfortunately for me, the traditional “rock bottom” that one is supposed to experience just never quite came.

In August of 2019, I finally decided to take matters into my own hands and truly help myself. Not quite to get better, but to get infinitely better at coping.

It was about May/June when, not for the first time, I literally lost all sense of myself. I had no idea if I enjoyed my life. No idea what I actually wanted. No idea what might help me decide, and once I did, no idea what I would need to do to get it.

For so long I’d been carrying on with the same boring chapter of my life. The story never progressing, no twists or turns.

The book became more and more disappointing to read. I found myself desperately wanting to put it down, buried at the back of a shelf where I wouldn’t have to look at it anymore.

Bored, lonely, and losing the will. I needed a break – Ideally from life, but I settled on the Algarve.

Regrettably, a family holiday was not going to be quite the “break” I needed.

Two weeks away with 5 siblings, 3 family friend’s kids, two couples (including a father with less than subtle mental health problems of his own), and my grandma – whom I love dearly, but did contribute to the number of people I would have to speak to.

The holiday became just about as daunting as the rest of my life, and I decided that if I was ever going to have the space to properly think, in this villa of chaos, then I must find an outlet where I could pour my heart out. Something I could put down, to empty a dishwasher/neck seven glasses of rosé/break up a fight between 4 screaming kids, then pick up and delve straight back into.

My personal eden.

Past experiences of home sharing devices forever scarred me from writing in the notes pages and apps within my phone. It had to be analogue. In fact, writing things down the old fashioned way had always provided a certain kind of sanctuary.

Unfortunately, 6 younger siblings, and a previous history of little sisters exclaiming “I’ve read all about the things you do, with Tom, in your diary” taught me to be cautious, and meant that I was less than confident writing in a notebook which might accidentally get left lying around.

But, I needed something I could have nearby all day – something to pop on the table next to a lounger, or in the kitchen, where I could grab it whenever I sought immediate refuge. I needed something safe from prying eyes. Like one of those journals you have as a kid, complete with a heart shaped padlock concealing the secrets within. Yep. I needed a secret diary.

Despite my stationary needs being no further developed than that of an infant, my tastes, however, are not.

I began picturing beautiful Mulberry, Aspinal, Anya Hindmarch, Mont Blanc, Moleskine, Smythson goodies. Great design. Something chic which would act as an accessory – I needed to carry this baby everywhere if I was to retain some kind of grace and decorum/sanity this holiday.

I wanted something to go with my outfits. Something secret, and safe, and practical, but also beautiful – something not out of place on the pages of vogue.

So, I set out on my search (i.e. I googled “lockable diary”).

Lo and behold 7,600,000 search results.

Click. Power rangers. Click. Fluffy unicorn. Click. Smiggle. Click. Invisible ink pen princess – the list goes on.

After a while I realised that, not only had my childish desire for secrets not matured, an option for adults didn’t even exist in the UK.

Do grown ups not need privacy, too?

I was just about to settle for a rather ravishing sequinned pineapple number, with a less than practical lock and key, when I stumbled across a slightly more modest/conservative option on good old Amazon.

Lacking the kind of effortless style I was after, and dispatching from Asia, was a gaudy, innately tacky, white leatherette scenario, decorated with the totally meaningless jumbled latin words of “Lorem Ipsum” (used by designers to fill areas of proposed text)…like… on purpose.

Something about that made me laugh. In a way, it was perfect – nothing in my head actually means anything either. And so, I fell in love. I ordered it with a silent prayer that it would arrive on time, then got distracted and ordered 7 “going out” tops from Zara to arrive next day.

Bloody nightmare. On the eve of my flight the effing dinner outfits hadn’t arrived, but the delicious safe haven for my thoughts came just in time.

The holiday came and went, and before long we were back home. Normality resumed, and I believe I was looking for an envelope at the time, when I delved into the man drawer in my fathers study.

There lay a plain looking notebook. Something I’d never seen before. Me being me – a nosy bastard – immediately opened the book and read the first page.

No prizes for guessing what I did next. Flicked straight through the book to read whatever was inside.

Blank.

Every single page, blank.

The date of the warning told me that this book had sat here, with a purpose yet totally unused, for months before my father mentioned his desire for a private space. This thought played on my mind for weeks. I couldn’t let it go. He needs one. I need one. Surely others must need one? And why us?

Because we’re nutters.

Mental health professionals have always encouraged writing, and it’s true. It’s so helpful. How many other people out there need one of these too, but they just don’t know it? Or know where to look? Or can’t find something suitable?

And that’s how it all started.

I’d actually bought a domain name some years ago with the intension of starting a blog, or a portfolio, or a something. The idea just never came to me. I liked the name. It was part of me. But most importantly, it was already there. And so, MISSRO became.

Throughout my life, I’ve realised that there are so many people struggling in so many ways. And sometimes, the things we think aren’t kind, or true, or appropriate (but the fact is, that we do think them) stay there, whirling around – a tornado of negativity – unless we can get them out.

Writing is an absolute godsend for anyone who needs a little bit of space. A bit of perspective. And for me, writing works wonders as a preventative tool, before all hell breaks loose, in a head full of overbearing, overpowering, and overactive thoughts. I think it’s especially important for those who experience mental health problems – such as me and my father – to give it a go.

So, please, take advantage. Look after yourself. Give the gift of space to someone in need and, by doing so, give back to an incredibly importance cause.

My hope is that (even when we don’t have the energy) we can all help others as we learn to help ourselves.

Rose