My story

I'm sitting here, outside in my garden, on a cold and drizzly January evening. Glass of wine in one hand and a cigarette in the other. I've taken a step back.

Looking into the windows of my house, I know there are four lives I have created in there. Four people who rely on me. Three of whom are a product of a failed marriage, of which the father wants no more contact.

I've had a violent relationship where my physical and emotional wellbeing were broken down to nothing, but now I've moved on and I'm happy.

Those four lives are being taken care of by someone who has been diagnosed with a mental health condition. Yeah, I have OCD, did I forget to mention that?!

No one really know what that condition is about, they all think it's a joke. Something that's put on TV to entertain the masses. No. You're wrong. It's ruined my life.

But still, I take care of those four lives. Still I maintain this home I have built, and dinner is served at 5pm, and clothes are washed and pressed. I am immaculately turned out, day in, day out. But that black cloud looms, and those four lives are taken care of.

So where do I go from here, on this cold and drizzly January evening? With my glass of wine and my cigarette. With my heart in tatters and full of regret.

I write.