Sometimes it feels as though everywhere I go, I’m telling a dfferent version of my story. Even from minute to minute. I get confused about things; handing my mum peppermint teabags like she asked, only it turns out she didn’t ask, so I can only assume it was a dream.
Hey, tthat’s something I know. I like tea. I really bloody like tea. I also like Karl Pilkington, and sometimes my laugh is dirty. Sometimes it’s like a hyena’s.
Today smelt of incense and hot water bottle rubber. It felt like cold feet and stomach cramps, eyes burning with tears. It tasted like tea (the proper stuff), cheese pizza and second-hand Oragel. It sounded like coughing and laughing, and annoying accents on the telly. It looked like fairylight reflections, swollen cheeks and sunken eyes.
The tree died. It collapsed on itself completely, which was hilarious as it’s artificial. I empathise with it, sincerely! The sky and blue and pink bits in it, and it didn’t rain so much today.
I’m drip-feeding information about myself. Some I’d rather forget, but I mention because it helps form the core of who I am.
I live with my partner of (almost) three years and I can’t imagine him not being here. I love him (to the moon and back).
I’m an empath and highly introverted. I love the people I keep in my life so much that sometimes I shut down completely.
I experienced many years of sexual and psychological abuse from early childhood. It was severe, but what abuse isn’t?