This is a merge of my 'Wanderer' blog that tells of two years of my three years on the streets, and a new blog that tells of my life after the Diocese of Winchester ripped through my life for for the last few years on top of the previous serious harm that left me homeless
This is a day to day blog of my life as I continue to survive, work on recovery and on the social problems that I have and try to come to terms with limitless traumas I have survived along the way.
This blog is in tandem with my blog about my experiences in the Church of England

The former name of this blog and the name of it's sister blog are to do with my sense of humour, which I hope to keep to the end, which appears to be ever more rapidly approaching. At least I laughed, and I laughed at the people who were destroying me. Don't forget that.

Here are my books, which I wrote for you if you would like to know more:

Monday, 21 November 2011

I am here in this big town again, it is dark and it is raining, that is how I love it to be, I wish I could stay here, but I am putting myself at too mcuh risk from the woman from the church who went on hurting me, even being in this county, County A, is putting me in danger of her finding me and causing me problems.

This town is beautiful, it is full of memories.
I just went for a walk after the last computer session and I found a 6th sticker for McD's and I went and got a cup of tea.

I missed out of yesterday's adventures that I had managed to get my hair washed. 5 minute hair washing is an art I have perfected. I use the disabled toilet or the baby change room, in this case the baby change room. Block the plughole with tissue paper, run water, wet hair, use soap from the dispenser to rub hair, rinse with handfuls of water, dry with paper towel, dry the floor with paper towel, scram before mothers and babies start beating on the door, go into the ladies toilets and dry hair more under the hand dryers, it is sufficient. Daunting in cold weather through.

How can I go on telling you about my past, it is hurting me and eating me up, distressing harsh memories, for which the church entirely blames me, I want to write it out for you, so that it isn't just kept in and controlled by dissociating.

I wish with all my heart that I could share my story with a psychologist. I think a psychologist would somehow understand. But I have no access to a psychologist.

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