I am Lucy Benedict. I am a writer.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am 33. I am greeneyed and redhaired. I am living in Norwich. I am the mother of two beautiful children. I am the girlfriend of Alistair. I am living in a beautiful house.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am childlike. I am in possession of a fragile sense of wonder. I am able to see beauty all around. I am too easily caught by the fleeting moment.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am human.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am oversensitive. I am easily wounded. I am in possession of a skin too few.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am prone to comic exaggeration. I am able to find the humour in most situations. I am likely to expand upon tiny moments.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am fragile. I am vulnerable. I am already bruised.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am an atheist. I am cynical. I am sarcastic. I am snarky.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am capable of hurting people without ever intending to. I am too quick to reply with what I think is the right word, not the appropriate word. I am hurtful.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am a bad mother, girlfriend, daughter, sister, friend. I am neglectful of my children. I am hurtful to friends. I am not aware of how lucky I am. I am unreliable.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am lazy. I am ungrateful. I am unkind. I am a bad mother. I am not appreciative of how fortunate I am. I am a shameful mess.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am cruel. I am heartless. I am someone who should be ashamed of themselves. I am someone who can’t be liked very much.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am someone who lashes out. I am someone who hurts the ones she loves best. I am someone you would be advised to avoid.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am spending too long on twitter and ignoring my children. I am guilty of not caring for them. I am responsible for the bad thoughts people have about my children.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am a coward. I am someone who hurts the ones she loves best. I am nasty.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am guilty of writing too much. I am guilty of having my head turned by favourable remarks about my writing, that I care more about my words than I do about my children. I am placing too much importance on writing. I am the type of person who does nothing except that which pleases her.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am apparently about caring more about people liking my words than I am about caring for my family. I am a failure. I am someone who has failed at every single thing they ever attempted to achieve.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am still here, because I failed to kill myself. I am still in the grip of a massive depression. I am someone who has had suicidal thoughts for weeks. I am someone who can’t even manage to end their own life.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am someone whose only relief was to write. I am someone who has been told that I am an applause junkie. I am someone who has been told they neglect their children. I am someone who has been told they are lazy, ungrateful, boring, nasty, bitchy, unthinking, uncaring, a shit mum who doesn’t realise how lucky she is, who takes the piss, who makes members of her family not care about leaving the area. I am a crap mum. That fucking stabs me through the heart. I know I am crap at the practical stuff. But I hoped I might have done my bit emotionally. I am someone who has been told they have been stalked across twitter for months, taking the slightest few words as proof of me being as nasty, ungrateful, lazy, boring, bitchy and unkind as I am. I am someone who had to take this criticism to my face.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am always believing the worst about myself. I am reeling from hearing all this from one friend, for confirming what I always believed about myself. And now my dad phones and confirms it’s all true.
I am Lucy Benedict. I am the person who had to absorb all this information. I was a writer. I was someone who was going to the Harper Collins Autumn Fete. I was a writer. I was going to Mumsnet BlogFest.
I am no longer Lucy Benedict. I am no longer a writer.