I pretty much hit rock bottom yesterday, but after having a good nap, I realised something.
I am Letti fucking Hellequin. I have survived some shit in my time and nothing has managed to kill me, not even this body-shredding illness. Any intruder hiding in a bedroom wardrobe like a hobo is going to be very bloody sorry about it. I shouldn’t fear incurring the wrath of a stranger when they are in MY HOUSE. They should fear running into ME. I am made of fucking steel.
I’m still not 100% on The Intruder definitely being imaginary, even though I KNOW I should be and it’s very frustrating. I can’t force my brain to get there. I still have issues with what happened with the water tank and my cardigan etc.
But I’ve definitely gotten most of myself back. It’s fashionable to pretend you understand mental illness, and every man and his goat claims to have a social anxiety diagnosis, yet there was a deafening silence when I needed people to reach out to me. But that silence did send a message. It said that I am unwanted and that nobody cares how horrible something is making me feel. Nobody is ever excited to see me and nobody is ever proud of anything I’ve done. And that’s OK.
I’m not the brightest bulb on the tree, but I know when I’m being pushed out. I’ve got to stop clinging to a place that I never intended to spend the rest of my life in anyway. It doesn’t matter if I end up in the middle of nowhere in Andover. I will continue to not see people and to never be thought about by anybody.
A district known as Nightmare on Round Streets.
It looks like a whale face.
I was letting the water treatment plants create a moat around the nuclear plant, as a deterrent and whatnot.
But then there was too much poo and my roads flooded.
So I had to make a poo waterfall.
I do not believe you are putting the fire out from that distance, but go ahead.
I printed the first draft of the first charity training guide and am going to send it to a pilot applicant.