Snow in August

 In the few months that he was in my life, he did damage that has lasted for years with no relief, because for years he'd been enabled to believe he could do as he pleased.  This is an article to do with what he did and how things are now as he shows off publicly and makes himself a faux celebrity with yet another coat tails stunt: https://telegra.ph/How-abusers-get-away-with-it-09-22

 I knew you'd ask. Look, I doubt it, most of the time, I was just a fun toy, made him feel good. Michael needs props to feel good, the showing off in the press.I was a toy, he didn't care about my feelings, needs or wishes, but most of the time it was a fun game for him, one he could throw away, he wasn't interested in how I felt.  The time he did seem to want to hurt me and get a reaction was his theft of my medical data. Even when he threw me away, it was more like child dropping a toy 'Bored now, this one is hard work, let's do something else'.  But he did hurt me, he destroyed me, and he shouldn't be showing off in the #LimerickLeader  Here is a little sample of concerns:  https://telegra.ph/Do-I-understand-09-21

 I always wondered why the story of Nanny McPhee and the Patrick Doyle soundtrack always attached it self to my relationship with Michael. My brain is an interesting machine, damaged so badly by injury and trauma and rewired with an autistic slant. The brain always insisted in attaching Snow in August and Nanny McPhee to the penthouse and Michael.  You see, the relationship between myself and Michael wasn't romantic, he unsurprisingly had no interest in me that way, I was overweight and looked pretty awful from homelessness and my teeth were broken and so on. Sometimes because of what he said and did, I was afraid his actions might be to do with trafficking. And I sometimes wonder if he was disappointed to find I was older than I looked. He did push me for my birthday, age and date of birth and when he stole my data, I presume he got all his info.  Snow in August has romance and challenges in it, it begins with a widower and his troubled children. The widower is being for...

  Famous Christmas scene in Limerick Limerick. August 2026.  I work weekends. At lunchtime I sat with my salad and looked at my phone. My eye was drawn to something, and I looked closer.  A year ago, someone in my life asked me to help them to commit suicide, and I immediately contacted their mental health team and asked them to come out. The person in question was a recluse, wouldn't go to them and wouldn't speak to them on the phone, and I had to badger the mental health service to come out. The person in question had attempted to get the means to commit suicide and I took this seriously while his friends said 'Oh, he's always like that'. I knew before I was trained that if someone is trying to obtain the means for suicide, they mean it.  The meeting which ensued was calm enough, but the person in question was open that they wanted to die, that they had a method in mind, and that they'd asked me to help them. The mental health team engaged, listened, changed t...

August 28th, 2026. Tonight I can't sleep because Michael's vainglory campaign is continuing in the press. I had to leave work early the same as last time. Questions come up.  If I'd not been autistic wouldn't I have refused to take the key fob and said to him 'If you're offering me an apartment, we need to discuss terms'. He relied on me not being able to, and he walked away.  How could I have been that stupid?  He knew I would be that stupid.  And that he'd play with me before throwing me away.  It's why he came back to try to administer the fatal blow that I don't understand.  Why destroying me and leaving me back on what he thought was the streets of Dublin, not Limerick, wasn't enough. The theft of my medical data indicates his intentions were never good. The theft and then holding it up to enrage and distress me, over and over again. 

Limerick, August 2026. The alarm wakes me at 6.15 and it's time to get ready for work. Clean work clothes are laid out and my bag and boots are by the door. I make my tea and look round the bedsit as I try to wake up. It's clean and tidy, ready for an evening of writing and study when I come home and my new ukulele is waiting for me with clean new strings. The walls are lined with exercise programme instructions from the neuromuscular therapist, there are souveniers on the cupboards, Leinster House, UL, events. Things are so different from two years ago, and so much has happened, one thing that reminds me of the penthouse is the floor, the same brown bare floor, the other thing is Michael and his associates still showing off in the press - I can't understand the psychology of a man who behaves like that after nearly killing me and doing goodness knows what to others. I make the bed, pack my lunch, check I've got everything, put my headphones on for 'The Belfast Polk...

This story starts on the terrace of the Penthouse where Michael placed me, and is a slow start as it is hard for me to go through what happened. This is a slow post, if you want to jump to summaries, go to the bottom of the post.  It's been two years since I stood on that terrace, a tangle of emotions, he was so far away, and causing so much confusion and uncertainty. Contacting him didn't help, but I didn't know how not to, because I was in an increasing state of distress. He had taken over, he had control, but his ideas and plans changed and evolved rapidly and had no foundation, no grounding, no point of reference and he was unpredictable and said all sorts of strange things but without clarity, and yet I adored and admired him, he was my future and my saviour, so far away in Limerick as I looked over to the Dublin Mountains and my guardian mountain, Three Rock.  Here I am now, in my bedsit in Limerick, surrounded by paperwork for the last week and next, thinking about J...