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  • Writer's pictureEmily Ainscough


TW: sexual violence.

I know I haven’t been the most reliable blogger lately, I’m sorry about that. The truth is, I’m having a bit of an eat, pray love moment (I’ve never actually read that book, so I hope that means what I think it does). This summer I was raped. I won’t go into all the details both for my benefit and for yours, but I was travelling alone and my disability was exploited. It was violent, it was heartbreaking, it was cruel. But now that pretty much the worst thing that could have happened has happened, I kind of feel limitless. I’ve got nothing to be scared of now, in a weird, twisted kind of way. So, I’ve been roaming around the UK in my dry robe and my wellies, headphones full of soothing tunes and doing just exactly what I need to do to heal. Sexual violence is something I’ve only really hinted at on this blog, which feels remiss, perhaps like love this is another topic that’s just too big for me. Can I really call myself a writer if I can’t talk about anything that actually matters? Hopefully one day I will make a stab at talking profoundly about what has happened to me, but readers, today is really not the day.

Instead, I think you can pretty much expect from this blog what you’ve been getting. I’ll be posting sporadically with silly little sentimentalities and double entendres exactly when I feel like it and not a drop more or less than that. Now is the time for Emi to be selfish, to sleep in squishier duvets and hold my friends a little tighter for a lot longer, hot coffees in independent coffee shops, jumping in puddles, crying in the sea, pointing out rainbows to myself…being gentle with life. And I’m doing really well, all things considered. I have my moments… big ones… I’ve made a royal tit out of myself in front of a dear friend’s entire family (apparently drinking vodka from the bottle and scream-singing Ray LaMontagne accompanied by the three chords I know on the piano isn’t the healthiest way of coping… but it’s been a learning curve). My self esteem has taken a huge hit, so I’m trying my hardest to step up to the plate and remind myself that I am worthy, beautiful and loved. I’m really glad I’ve been on such a journey of self-love lately, because for the road ahead of me I’m going to need to lean on that love with the full weight of my poor little bruised body.

I want to say a huge thank you to all the wonderful people who have hosted me in their little patch of this island on my journey. I have little postcards on my soul from Leeds, Welshpool, Aboyne, Swansea, Edinburgh, Stirling, Aberdeen and Shrewsbury and they are patching up the breaks like plasters. Actually… less like plasters… more like kintsugi… yes, exactly like that.

Alright. I think that’s enough for today. I’m looking forward to writing a blog post about giving the perfect handjob at some point because I was quite bored the other day and watched several YouTube tutorials on the subject. Now I have lots of new tips (pun intended…ish) ‘I must tell the internet,’ I thought. So, get your cucumbers and hair spray bottles ready to learn how to do the bottle opener and the elevator shaft with me. I also have some awkward Miranda-style anecdotes to share from the STI clinic and I know I do way too many posts about platonic love but right now especially I’m feeling the call to share that with you. In the meantime, I’ll be sitting by trees and looking out to the rolling hills of Scotland and inward to the little girl I’m looking after right now. She deserves my full attention. Stay silly, stay sexy, and love each other ferociously. xx

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