My daddy made me this out of scrap paper. I was 6 years old and mainly drew pictures of witches, animals and houses with one tree in the front garden, to the right.
From that time I was never really without a book to draw and write in. I have so many still with me, thank God. They’re not comfortable for me to read but I’m glad to have them.
I stopped writing a diary because everything I could share outside of my own mind, I shared with Phil. I was quite sick of seeing my awful self written down, couldn’t bear to do it. I now keep a five year diary – a question a day, which I can just about cope with and keep to.
This is the only real writing I do as myself. I’m writing so much more now I’m better at living. Less critical of myself? More joyful? But I feel afraid tonight. I’m worried about going it alone, trusting that I’m my own master and friend.
I hope I can stay friends with me.