So that’s what I did. What I do still. If my emotions threaten to engulf me, I switch them off. I become someone else. I smile when I want to cry. I turn my attention to the children, to my husband, or to my job. To whatever crisis that might need dealing with. I handle things efficiently, mostly, and calmly. Or at least I used to… when my children wanted me. When I had a husband who wanted me. I’m not sure the housing association wants me back either.

Attempting to quash the grief that kicks in ferociously, I refocus, reminding myself why I’m here: to detach from the pain. My husband is leaving me, walking away from all that we have together, as if it means nothing. As if I mean nothing. My mother has gone. I’ve no idea where, or when she will be back. If she will come back. I’m a grown woman, I shouldn’t need her, but I do. So badly. My father… I don’t think he ever cared for me. How could he?

Do I care for him? Yes, for the man I once imagined he was. But he only ever existed in my mind. Banishing thoughts of him, which immediately invoke a new wave of impotent anger, I squeeze through the mass of gyrating bodies that seem to move in slow motion under the strobe lights. The usual overabundance of beer and perfume assaults my senses, and tonight I feel at ease with that, as if I belong. I don’t need alcohol; I’ve had plenty. I can already feel the little rushes of exhilaration as I move to the music, my physical senses, touch and smell, becoming keener. The music is louder, sharper within me. I am more aware of the moment. Soon my inhibitions will loosen. I will be free of the hurt. Does Jason know how deep my hurt runs? The uncertainty I now have about who I am, my sexuality?