Getting to the Fruit of the Problem

It makes sense to get the really horrible stuff out of the way early, from both a timeframe point of view and also starting big and siphoning down into gutter level smut later on. You’re probably not going to get those belly laughs in anytime soon so if you’re reading this part of the thread thinking you’re going to get memoirs that make you feel less awful about gagging on the stench of unwashed balls or something equally as heinous, this part isn’t for you.

So, where do I start? Psychologists and Psychiatrists (what even is the difference between the two?) will be salivating through this heap of emotional turmoil knowing that whatever senseless ridiculousness ensues from this point will all be, in some way, linked to the reeking cess-pit of a childhood I endured. They’d be utterly correct too. Before I go on I ask you not to view me as a two-dimensional person who was abused as a child and that is my single identity to you. Admittedly, what follows on from the childhood is a very broken person trying to muddle their way through life but please do not feel sorry for me – I have carved myself out a life other people envy as a strong, independent woman living in relative abundance and happiness with her two cats. My past is a part of me, but so is the fact I punched a used sanitary towel with a boxing glove at the gym!

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