Hello, my name is Andrea. I live in France and here it’s more commonly a boy’s name, I think it’s more of an Italian thing, and they don’t say it the way we do, it’s Ann-dre-ah. I’m not complaining, it just takes a ton of getting used to. I’m 25, or as I prefer to say I’m halfway to 50. I have been in France around Paris for 5 years, so since 2012. I work with children, I have studied to work in nurseries and the like and I love it. In my spare time I enjoy knitting because you can never have too many socks. I also enjoy sewing, I upcycle old clothing into weird rag dolls, and I mean rag dolls. I stuff them with rag so they’re quite heavy. I like drawing, but I’ve not done that for a long time.
My middle name is Baillie, it was my grandma’s middle name and I feel honoured that we share that. Family is something very important to me and it’s hard to live so far away from them in a different country.
The reason I wanted to start this blog is because that two and a half years ago I went through some horrible events. Now I finally feel safe enough to write about them, I also have the safety net of two bottles of cheap white wine in my fridge, four bottles of whisky, a bottle of rum and a supermarket five minutes away from where I live. This story I want to tell broke me in ways that I am only just starting to understand and that I didn’t realize at the time. Some days I am still struggling to get to grips with what happened, other days I am fine and happy as if I was never so violently attacked. Time is meant to be the best healer but I’m still waiting to see. Well, I do feel better, but to have been broken into so many small pieces by such terror and to pick up the pieces is not easy by any means. I say I just want to forget but I can’t seem to manage it. I’ve been blamed for said events and I’ve rejected it, I don’t see how I could have brought it on, at no moment I asked to be attacked in such a way. To recover from shame that isn’t self-inflicted, rather thrust upon me by bad luck or circumstances. A type of shame it is not so easy to admit to having, so it’s easier to ignore it and pretend it didn’t happen. That I don’t have this guilt I carry with me everywhere. I am ashamed of an act I could not, would not and did not choose to participate in. At the time my attacker went and told everyone who could have been a witness his twisted version before I had a chance to tell anyone, and I was so embarrassed that by the time I said something nobody believed me. I think retelling the story in its integral start to finish will help me get my thoughts out and finally move on. Lifting the burden I’ve been dragging around like a dead weight for so long.
My end goal is to publish this story as a novel, and any funds earn will go towards financing some big projects I have lined up. I’ll say more about that in a later post though.