The question I am writing to you from the edge of the abyss… Hello! Despite the privileges I’ve had, my life has been a constant struggle. Since I was four, I’ve had little joie de vivre, thanks to a stew of mental health issues, a difficult home life and a recent discovery that I’m on the autistic spectrum. I don’t blame my autism for everything – my personality would be difficult regardless – but it explains a lot.
My life runs in cycles: denial of my feelings, stoicism, breaking point, sabotage and starting over. As a child, I’d bottle up frustrations at school, only to explode at home. In adulthood, these meltdowns have been more dramatic: quitting jobs, a half-baked suicide attempt, tantrums and, my biggest regret, the Pixie Cut Year. I’ve navigated life like the Charge of the Light Brigade, with little to show for it. I’ve had a string of odd jobs, television (ended in legal dispute), the Royal Albert Hall (unrequited crush) and living in a caravan in Scotland, where my job was to play chess with an elderly gentleman. Most recently, I worked for a religious leader despite being irreligious. For all my supposed creativity, I’m no closer to being a writer.
