Me, unravelling: from the beginning

I am all of these things: a mother, a wife, a sister, a daughter, a friend, a boss, a partner, a lawyer, a runner, a reader, a seeker of truth, a lover of sunsets and long drinks and laughing and hiking in hills. Someone who wants to be kind, to do the right thing, to perform all of my roles well, to hold my head high.

I have also been a liar, an adulterer, a cheat, a sneak, a fraud, a terrible mother, a lover of hiding and darkness and the underbelly of everything. Not caring whether I did anything well, or at all. Not. Caring. Selfish to my core.

I was thirty-five years old when I felt my life start to pop open at the seams, gently to nudge against the stitches that had always comfortingly held it together, to leak out in gaps around its outward respectability and to spill and spoil.  This year, this impossible, nigh-housebound, panicky Covid-19 apocalyptic year, I will turn forty.  And because I now think the unravelling is something that as a woman I will always have to live with, to be conscious of alongside all the other things I have to be conscious of, to be aware of as a hitherto unrecognised lurking undercurrent below any true joy – and because for the first time in my life I have time – I want to write about it.

Words are how I’ve always made sense of everything. These are my words: as honest a rendition as I can provide of how everything has been for me, of how I see things. I know that it is only my side of so many sides, but it is true.

To read from what I see as the very beginning of being the sort of person who’d later unravel, click here:

For the actual unravelling onwards, click here: