It’s been a long time, my old friend. I’ve been busy but that’s not stopped the inner turmoil swirling around in my mind. I thought I had dealt with my problems, I had mild depression in January after a difficult winter. I was trying my best to look at the positives. Writing is the only way I can express myself and I feel like no-one understands that except my best friend. Let me explain. I write about dark themes, sexual assault, abuse, boredom, reality. They’re unpleasant topics, they’re not easy, even for me they are challenging to write, but they are what I want to write about. I’ve tried writing about other things, fantasy, romance, but the topic I always seem to come back to is abuse. I am a generally happy person, I have a loving family and nice friends. I may be a little weird, but I am not crazy. I love philosophy, I like cooking, reading, eating, watching movies and other stuff. I do think about societal problems, body image portrayed in the media, sexism, feminism, labels and other difficult topics. I am aware that abuse comes in many forms and can be carried out by both men and women and that is what I am trying to express in my book.
I am a very sensitive person. Yes, I live alone in a foreign country and contrary to popular belief among family and friends, I am very happy with my life here. But living all alone in another country where English is not the first language has a way of making you view things clearly, it gives one clarity. It’s given me some hard truths I’ve had to face. The more I interact and talk to people, the more I want to hide away and crawl back into a shell. Maybe that’s what I need to do, get away from people for a while.
I don’t appreciate the judgement and constant put downs from my brother. It’s not fair. Why is it okay that some people can write about murder, psychopaths etc. but I am not allowed to write about abuse? Doesn’t mean something is wrong with those people or that they are secret psychopaths. So just like that, just because I want to write about abuse, doesn’t mean something is wrong with me. I’ve experienced it, I want to write about it, I want to raise awareness and write about the challenges. It’s not easy for me to write, but it is what I write. It is what comes naturally to mind.
I wish my family would leave me alone, but I understand why they’re worried.