For all those who have supported me: 

I woke up in the middle of the night. It had really really rained and it was the rain that woke me. I could hear it pounding on the roof and the wind howling. But I didn't feel scared. 

You have told me how brave I am. But I did not feel it. I felt like I had no other choice and that the result of that choice, because everything has a cost, was to feel like this. 

To feel fractured into so many pieces that they could never be found. To just be weak and broken. Curled into a ball, knowing the whole world, everyone out there could see how exposed I am. 

To have this thing which is rotting me from my core. 

My skin is inside out. 

Every part of what and who I was is tainted. 

That the menacing shadow I am trying to shake off, the one that is there in the corner of my eye and at the tip of my spine. The one that makes me nauseous and fearful and then the sickening jolt, that it is me. 

It is the end of summer and I have kicked a wasp’s nest when I know they are starving. 

But then something shifted and I woke in this storm. And that howling wind and pouring rain felt like a cosy blanket keeping me safe, protecting me. And I was content, everything felt ok but actually better. I was secure in that darkness and immense noise. I was stable. 

That space inside of me that felt like it had been a reservoir of poison was warm. The wind tossed and spun all the pieces of me back into one place. The downpour cleansed me of the toxins I thought ran through my veins and fed my brain and polluted my soul. 

This is how it feels to be cared for by you. To be loved by you. To call you my friend. 

You have looked me in the eye, unflinchingly, as I told you of my pain and my deeply, deeply powerful shame that had gagged me for so long.

Your fingers are outstretched to mine as I am crumpled on the floor, ready to help me stand up. 

You have stood guard over me as I am fetal, scrunched, and naked. 

Your back is braced and your shoulders strong for the time I need to lean on your arm. 

Your hand is never far from the small of my back, ready to push me up if I am about to fall.

And I sob as I write this. Not because I feel dirty and damaged and vile and weak, in a prison, trapped and paralysed as I try to navigate who I am and how and what and why I am here. 

I cry because I am capable because of you. 

I thought the weather was my blanket, but it's not, it's you. 

That relief to know the sensation of content and comfort. It is you. 

I am surrounded by Amazons and Warriors. You made a fortress for me. 

You are with me. 

Screaming into the wind, roaring into the rain and this is what it is to be brave.