I can’t take this anymore. I’m so lonely but I don’t know how to talk to people without feeling like a freak, I can’t trust anyone’s motives, I don’t know how to act. I can’t talk to anyone about it because I don’t know anyone. I hate people telling me that I need to meet some other mums and dads or I’ll be stuck being lonely forever. I don’t like being on my own but I’d rather be on my own than be forced to interact and to take part in a play that I don’t want to be part of and to imitate the conversations that normal people have about their children and their friends and their partners and I can’t fucking do it. I’m sick of overloading in the smallest social situation or with the smallest amount of stimulation. I can’t take it when David cries or when the flat’s a mess or when we’re out in town and there’s music playing in a shop. I hate the feel of clothes and of earrings and of hair. I hate it when things aren’t in order. I hate having anything but the monitor and keyboard and mouse on my desk. I hate things touching my feet. I can’t stand the window being open or the shadows or the light or the dark and I can’t take the noises of the plumbing or the taps or the cats or David or the floorboards or the upstairs neighbour playing music or the road outside or the sirens. My armpit is itching and I can’t scratch it but it’s driving me insane. I feel like there are bugs crawling all over me. I can’t stand the birthday balloon floating near the ceiling although I loved it when Joe bought it for me. I can’t stand the clutter on the side or the piles of toys everywhere or the noise of the fridge and the water cooler and the road outside. I want someone to take it all away.