Language is breath. Its inspiration, a hunger. Its release, an appeasement of trauma, stress, after years of coping alone. As a child growing up in the Seventies, reading and writing offered an imaginative outlet, a vital, addictive escape from a daily, disruptive violence. Home is home; you may not feel safe, but it is the only one you know. One day at school my teacher questioned me about the bruises on my arms. I was confused, unsure what words I should use. Even at five years old I knew telling the truth would not help me. And so I made up a story. I said I had fallen out of a tree. As she smiled, comforting me, I realised how that story had helped me. It made the truth less…
