In 2016, I had over 100,000 followers on Instagram, a book deal and the beginnings of a promising television career.
I was an accidental influencer, who should have been sipping a #gifted cocktail on a flamingo-shaped pool float.
Instead, that June, I found myself voluntarily checking in to the Priory, where I was being treated for bipolar, anxiety, insomnia and what I now know was a straight up addiction to scrolling social media.
It was around the 20,000 follower mark that I realised I needed my phone on my person, like gollum needs his ring.
Instagram was the first thing I reached for when I woke up, and the last thing I looked at before I attempted to sleep. Instagram was my world, I was good at it, and so everyone assumed that I must have it made.
I’ve never been the type of person you would expect to become an ‘influencer.’ I’m not good at make up, …