There are probably easier ways to deal with your life falling apart than sitting down and writing about every questionable decision you've made since you were eighteen. Therapy, I am doing it. Yoga. Meditation. One of those wee journals where you're supposed to write three things you're grateful for every morning. Instead, apparently, I'm writing a blog. And if I'm going to do this, I'm doing it properly. Not the Facebook version. Not the version people have heard from somebo

So there I was. Back living with Mum and Dad. I had my daughter. I was starting to go out again. Starting to remember that underneath being somebody's mum and somebody's ex, there was still actually a person in there. And that person loved cars. I'd been going to Strathy since I was about fifteen. Cars. Friends. Sunday-night cruises. That was my thing. So once I was back home, I started going again. Sometimes my daughter even came with me. I was still Mum. Always. But I was a

So I'd left my husband. I'd moved into temporary accommodation. I'd spent precisely one night there by myself. Then somehow he was there every night afterwards. And eventually? I moved back home. Again. By this point, I can practically hear people reading this screaming: WHY DID YOU KEEP GOING BACK? And it's a fair question. It's one I've asked myself plenty of times. But leaving somebody you've built years of your life around isn't always one dramatic moment where you pack a