I can’t tell you how good it feels to have got that out.
My name is Sarah, I am a 52 year old recluse living in Milton Keynes.
I haven’t left my house in 3 years.
I sit each day, dressed in these same grey baggy leggings and this blue t-shirt in front of my computer, the sunlight trying to poke through the gap in the middle of my curtains making the dust sparkle in that thin shaft of light. Much like the snow that ‘Heather’ has in her garden.
But that’s not something I will ever see.
I will only ever get to see the inside of these four walls, to sit here biting my nails until they bleed each day.
The delivery man from Tesco’s is due soon. He comes once a week. Only he doesn’t, it’s not always the same man, I rarely see the same one twice and I don’t like things like that, it sets my nerves on edge. I like things the same, that’s why I don’t go out. That’s why already, half way down this post, I am shaking with fear of the unknown. With fear of what you will all say.
My finger nails are bleeding so badly I have blood all over my keyboard.
Why am I outing myself to you now?
I feel guilty, having arranged a meet up that I can never go to, can not attend because
a. I am not ‘Heather. You would guess it straight away, I could never be as confident as she is.
b. I can’t leave my house. I can’t leave it because the outside world is filled with things and people I can not control, things that make my breath catch and my hands tremble just getting close to the front door.
This life on the computer, this life as Heather is the only one I can live.
Which of course is complete and utter bollocks, I am really Heather, honest. But it could be true, couldn’t it? I could easily be anyone but Heather. Sat protected and hidden behind our computer screens we could be anyone we wanted, live any life, have any personality or history we choose.
I could be Kevin, a sexually repressed, middle aged man still living with his dominating mother, who likes to strangle kittens in his spare time.
Or Olga, a retired trapeze artist and prostitute who sits hunched over her computer, working her way through 60 cigarettes a day, hacking and choking, resting the cigarette on the keyboard as she types on increasingly chared and melted keys.
Or I could really be Heather, a mother of two from Rochdale now living in Lapland with an overactive imagination and too much time on her hands.
Makes you wonder, huh?
Are all these bloggers really who they say they are?
Do they really live the lives they write about?