Yesterday was my mother’s eighty-seventh birthday. It was difficult. I have no idea what’s going on in Exeter. I have to hope that somebody would tell me if anything happened to her, but I can’t even be sure of that.
I sent her a card and a box of chocolates and for the whole day, she was there, in the back of my mind. I kept wondering if she would call me to say thank you, and thinking that I should call her, but neither of those things happened. The fact is that right now, I simply can’t make contact, not because it’s impossible, as clearly that’s not the case, but because I have to look after me first. I’m already looking forward to the day when I am strong, when I have plenty of friends, maybe even a man in my life, then I can go down to Exeter and see her. Then I can tell her that it’s OK, and that I forgive her for being such a terrible mother to me, and that I’m happy and contented with my life, but that day isn’t here yet. So until then, I have to be the most important person in my life which, when you think about it, is exactly the way it should be.
I've been working on a book about my life and how I've started to sort out my problems. The above paragraph may be the way it ends, I'll have to wait and see.
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