It’s taken me twenty years to start talking; to start believing it wasn’t my fault; to allow my self-imposed armour of shame and guilt to crack and fall away. It may take me another twenty to forgive the doubters, those who didn’t want to believe me.
Reader, he raped me. But I carried on. I chose to live, and love, and create. There are days when I hurt and hate, but they get fewer as the years pass.
Tonight, I’m drunk on hopes and dreams and love, high on a headful of colours and landscapes and words. Tonight, it’s so easy to believe.