When I woke up the morning after that vote and saw the result, I was despondent, I was angry, but I genuinely believed I would get over it. I thought time would be a healer, that the country would coalesce around a reasonable Brexit compromise, and we would all move on.
It hasn’t happened. Three years on, and I’m still furious.
Furious at the needless waste of money and effort that is being expended to try and protect us from the impact of this decision.
Furious at the lack of action to solve other serious problems while Westminster obsesses over the minutiae of Brexit.
Furious at the loss of opportunity to live and work freely in 26 other countries.
Furious that millions of young people, who didn’t get to vote because they were under 18 at the time, will have to live for the rest of their lives with a decision that was out of their hands.
Furious that a politician was murdered.
Furious at the liars and cheaters in the campaign who got away with it.
Furious at the media who failed to give the arguments any proper scrutiny.
Furious at the politicians who are too cowardly to stand up and ask for a rethink.
Furious that my patriotism and belief in democracy has been called into question because I want to stop a damaging Brexit.
Furious that bigotry and xenophobia is now being treated as a legitimate political position.
Check back in with me in three years. Maybe by then I’ll be over it. But I doubt it.