I am currently sat in bed surrounded by empty bags of Twirl Bites and M&M Peanuts. My floor hasn’t been since since last Tuesday, when I emptied the entire contents of my wardrobe trying to find something that made me feel just a little bit beautiful. My sleeping pattern is a mess. Last night I slept for 2 hours. The night before it was 9. I suppose this blog post deserves to be filed over at Mental Health Diaries– but it explains my silence.
A month ago today, I left my flat in Liverpool, and closed the door on the life I had lived for nearly five years. My life being made up of a job I resented and a relationship I ruined.
My July became a routine. I woke up. I travelled to my new and incredibly rewarding job, I worked my arse off, I came home, I pushed my dinner around the plate and made awkward small talk with my mum and dad. I would climb into bed and waste hours reading books and oversleeping.
I told everyone I felt fine. I lied.
As you know, when I was a child I was unwanted by my mother. Yes, these incredibly strong and loving people stepped in to shape my life, but that doesn’t change the fact that I was unwanted by the man and the woman who were meant to love me more then life itself.
I lost my first boyfriend to suicide. He blamed me. Stating that I wasn’t good enough.
I remember it really hitting me whilst I was studying in Leeds. I was lashing out at everything, but up until that moment, I had kept it a secret. I had pushed so far with covering it up that when I finally cried to my mum, I told her it was because my boyfriend was cheating on me. I was that ashamed of myself, that scared of not being good enough for somebody else that I just lied.
Consistently in my life, I have not been good enough. So much so that now I remind myself daily not to get to comfortable with whatever situation I am in, because I will only fail.
When it comes to love, I am incapable. That first experience of love was messy, to say the least. It has left me confused about what love should be – what it should consist of. So time and time again, as dates have become boyfriends, as a boyfriend became a fiancè, I have struggled. My issues win and I am left single, lonely and desperate for somebody to fix me. When I do finally meet someone who manages to get through the walls, I am confronted with this overwhelming need to know every little detail, to know why there are here, to understand every inch of them. All the time, however, I am pushing the underlying feeling that I won’t be good enough to the back of my mind.
My friends are all incredible, but they are all so distant. I know it’s my fault. I’ve never been the friend to let friends get too close. I’ve always been the friend you see once a month for a quick coffee. My friends and their friends go on holiday together. My friends and their boyfriends live together. My friends are all out there living their best lives whilst I am tucked up in a bitter bed. I have a circle of acquaintances too. Those who know I’m always there should they need me. Recently, when I’ve needed them, they’ve been nowhere.
My body has always been something I’ve been proud of. I am not ashamed of the love handles, the stretch marks or the scars. However, the world can be so twisted with its ideology of perfection that I have been put on a back burner, destined to be a pity date, to be friend zoned for eternity. Every morning on my way to work, I scroll through Twitter (seriously, when am I not on Twitter!?) and I see guys fawning over guys with perfectly sculpted bodies with just the right amount of hair and the perfect beard. I look down at my iced latte, catching a glimpse of my fat rolls and realise that I’ll never be at the top of the list.
I have never understood body image. I would happily walk around my house naked. In November, I will happily skip down the beach in Australia. I will rock a pair of dungarees and I will look like an absolute 10 in my skinny jeans. That is, until I think about other peoples perception. Isn’t that crazy? That we are all comfortable within ourselves until we bring in other peoples judgement. I don’t get it, not one bit. But I am guilty of it. It stems back to me not feeling good enough. I want just to be absolutely perfect in every single way for somebody. Anybody.
Finally; my blog. I have taken two months off. Sort of. I have written 17 posts. Yep, seventeen. But each time I come to edit ready to publish, I scrutinise and destroy my work. I recently connected with so many bloggers through social media, all of whom are absolutely slaying it. Then theres me, whinging about my life and taking half decent photos. My blog has never been glamorous, it has never been where you come for the latest make up must haves and glorious weekends in Rome. Its gritty, it’s real, it’s honest. I used to be so proud that I was different that way. Now I am ashamed.
Yes, right now I am throwing myself a god damn pity party. It’s a party that I’ve attended since the beginning of July. I feel like I owed you an invite, just so you know that I’ve not completely disappeared.
I’ve spent the last month in hiding. Scared to tell anyone that I am really struggling. That I am facing an uncertainty. That I just don’t know where, if at all, I fit in this world.
The saddest part of it all, and it would absolutely destroy me if it were one of you telling me this; I am comfortable with this half life I have begun living.
I have recently found my place in work however, and you can read about that in Mondays post.
For now though, I am going to rummage through the wrappers. I am determined to find some uneaten Twirl Bites.
I am sorry I took so long to get to you. I’m sorry I ever doubted myself.