29-year-old writer working on my debut novel and dreaming of sharing my voice with the world. Daughter, sister, teacher, wife. I have too many photos of my dog and a mildly unhealthy Diet Coke obsession.
I spend way too much time on Twitter.
When I walk through my front door at 9:42pm, I don’t stop to take my coat off. I don’t put my keys in the bowl or throw my bag on the floor. I don’t even shout a hello to Dylan. I go straight to the bathroom, turn on the shower, crank up the temperature as high as I can bear it and jump in. I stand under the gushing water, grateful for the power behind it as it washes the horror that was this evening off my body. My skin is still crawling twenty minutes later.
Comfort Shows: An Amateur's Guide
I'll start this with a confession: I rarely watch new shows. As a sufferer of anxiety and depression, I rarely can or want to get stuck into something new, often using TV as background noise for writing, or scrolling through social media (confession #2: it's almost always the latter). As I type this, the TV is blaring out season 9 episode 20 of The Big Bang Theory. Have I watched this show umpteen times? Yes. Am I paying much attention to what's going on? No. Am I going to keep it on anyway? Hell yes.
I was sitting at my usual table when she approached. A beautiful woman with flawless dark skin stood opposite me, her black braids pulled back off her face. She clutched a small notebook in her hands and her walnut-brown eyes were anxious. I eyed her quizzically as she perched on an empty chair.