Why?

06 October

I write about the depression shizz because it saves me paying thirty-five quid an hour to my psychotherapist. An hour isn’t enough for the crap swimming and festering in my mind, I’m afraid. Plus I don’t like leaving a strange building in a busy high street with my eyeliner all fucked up from crying, looks a tad suspect, no? I am a mother, I don’t need rumours flying about that I could be an emotional, somewhat niche call girl.

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