Introduction

I have always been caught up in my own newest fad or craze. In school, I was known as the obsessive one, the one who was incapable of liking a band but instead immersed themselves in information to the point where I could tell you the favourite colours, birth dates and musical influences of all the  members.

I've always thought of this as one of my quirky little character traits. I don't know my 8 times tables off by heart but ask me Joel and Benji Madden's birthday (it's 11th March 1979. I'm like a google of useless information).

As I've got older, the fads seemed to lessen, and although still as strange as I was in school, it seemed that as I got older I took a more measured approach to everything.

That is, until I sit here right now and think of my impulsiveness. When I as younger, I didn't have any money of my own, and so the way that I could fully be involved and interested in something was to devote 110% of my time to it. That's why I can still recite every word of every Savage Garden song (first obsession, and to be fair still one of my favourites).

But now I have money, and thinking back I definitely know I spend money on things with little or no thought. Most of the purchases I make are for things which I am interested in now, which I know is fine. But what I don't think is fine are my motivations.

I have always been uncomfortable being me. I don't mean that to sound melodramatic, but hey, it is what it is. I have only come to this conclusion because I am always trying to be like other people, and must therefore be unhappy with myself, right?

Pathetic confession #1- There was a girl at school who was 2 or 3 years above me. The first time I saw her I thought she was beautiful. Turned out she was on the netball team, really great at art and pretty popular in her year group- all the things that were important to me at school. For whatever reason, I decided I wanted to be like her. If I saw her around school, I'd stare. We had a strict uniform policy but I would look for anything that gave me some new information- what sort of school bag did she have, could I get one? How did she make her hair look so nice? This did stop, you'll be pleased to know (so now if you catch me staring, odds are it's doing something like this. Or thinking about cats). I would like to point out at this juncture that I was only ever on the second team for netball, I can't draw and my hair, to this day, never looks nice. 

Almost everything I buy, I buy because I want to become someone better than myself. I don't buy one book at a time, I buy 10 with justifications such as:

"I know that someone recommended this, and said it was clever and gave them new life perspective. I want to read clever things and have a new perspective on life! Oh, recommended books list... I should get 10 times cleverer and 10 times more perspective if I read all these."

Tragically, at 27 I still don't really know who I am. There are things about myself that I really doubt, such as my interests. How many of those are MY actual interests, or have I just assimilated everyone elses and become some fake version of myself.

Pathetic confession #2- I used to go on the website BMEzine.com. I don't know if it's still around, but I used to spend hours, searching through pictures of people with piercings and tattoos. I used to print off pictures of the girls I wanted to be like, and make notes about what I liked about the picture, whether it was their outlandish hair colours, pierced noses or just their face. That's right, I would note down that they were prettier than me, and wish I could have symmetrical face with big blue eyes. Still don't really know what I was planning to do with this, it's almost like the day I turned 18 I was planning to walk out the house, in to a plastic surgeons office and say "Make me look like this please".

Why do I feel like this? There are so many reasons, so many individual moments in my life that I can think of now, and look back and think "well, it's her fault".

Her is my mother. The woman who should have been there for me during my teenage years, who should have helped me find myself and who I am. But instead she couldn't and for whatever reason chose to take solace with a bottle of vodka. Repeatedly.

If I was to describe my my relationship with my mother, I would do it like so.

Imagine that there's a running track. Now imagine that at the 400m and 200m marks, the ground suddenly dips- not by stairs but just a drop. That drop is about a meter deep, and continues for about 30m. The ground in it is unstable and it's a narrow and confined space. Running on it is hard, and claustrophobic, but you make it to the end of the section, climb back out and keep going. The track is poorly maintained, so even when you aren't in the crevices any more, you trip over loose tarmac.

The reason I have chosen a track to describe the relationship is simple- it represents a year. My mother cannot seem to deal with two times of year specifically. Christmas and the birthdays of me and my half sister, which are 6 days apart. Christmas- drink so much you ruin Christmas. The girls birthdays- drink so much you ruin those.

As well as the uneven track and the two crevices that you have to manoeuvre, there are also hurdles (such as school and teenage drama stuff). I felt like I was running the same race, year in, year out. Struggling to concentrate on school because I'd be on the phone, listening to my mother go one about why her life is so awful and not worth living. The amount of times I have had to listen to suicide threats, to horrendous comments about my Dad and other family members, to being told I was a disgrace, that I was pretending to be something that I wasn't and that I was HER daughter, and I had to be the way she wanted me.

Ah, so that's why I am like I am.

But what the hell do I do with this information now? I had a therapist at school, but to some extent that made me feel worse. Until I was 12 or 13, I didn't realise that the way I was living was not normal. Then you get therapy suggested to you, and you realise that something is so wrong with you that they want you to talk to other people about it, to work you out.

I know that this wasn't the thought process behind my school offering me therapy. In fact, it was an amazing thing of them to do, and I really wish I had spoken to the teacher who organised it for me and thanked her. Sadly she died last year, but I went to her memorial service, which I think she would have taken as a sign of my gratitude for all her help whilst I was in school.

So now, where does that leave me?

The reason I have written this is because I have always found writing cathartic. I like getting thoughts and feelings down. I tend to destroy them after a while. Some I found too cringe worthy, some I just decided I didn't like any more.

I have always been one to get a new hobby or pursuit and abandon it. Karate- 2 months. Youtube videos- 1 year. Writing a book- only 20,000 words. Nothing sticks to me, I feel like a useless post it note.

But I am going to try. To be fair, this one blog post is longer than anything I have written before, and having given it a re-read it doesn't seem to be too bad.

I have an appointment tomorrow with a therapist over the phone. I have referred myself through my beloved NHS system, and I am hoping this can give me some answers to questions I have about myself throughout the day. These past two weeks have been particularly difficult, as I have been signed off work.

I had been suffering from pains in my stomach, I was anxious all the time, I had the constant feeling that I could vomit. It all came to a head one morning, when half dressed, trying to get ready for work, my boyfriend said 'You can't go in to work like this Dan'. And I broke down, horrendous noiseless sobs into his shoulders. I suppose that it is the beginning of this chapter of my life.

Day One- Went to the walk in centre- I have gastritis and a bladder infection, plus they are worried that my aeorta might be enlarged. Second and third opinion Doctors confirm that my pulse is visible, but no cause for concern because I'm skinny- that may just be the way my body works. Off work.

Day Three- Manage to get an emergency appointment with a Doctor. I explain some of what I have been going through- I find it hard to tell people I'm struggling. She gives me Omeprozole for my stomach, and also confirms that the bladder infection has not gone, so I got new medicine for that too.

Day Four- Back to work. Have a break down and cry in front of my manager. I have so much work to do that I don't know where to start. Everyday there is a pile of things that needs to be dealt with and I can't physically find the time. I am physically shaking at my desk, I feel sick and like I need to use the toilet a lot. I can't eat, because my stomach hurts and I feel nauseous all the time.

Day Five- Back to work, doctor's appointment in the afternoon. She signs me off work for 10 days, for abdominal pain which we both think is being caused by stress. Taking work out the equation for a week should let us know if it is stress or not. I've never been signed off before, I let work know and ask what I need to do because I have no idea.

Fast forward... to today. I'll leave this post as it is for now, because it's epically long.

Thank you if you've read this, although reaching others is not the point of this blog for me, which is probably why this is the most honest thing I have ever written. The purpose of this blog is for me to try to work out what I want in life, what makes me happy, and how to cope with things when they make me sad. I thought it would be a good idea to get my head in some semblance of order before I speak to the therapist, who is going to have his work cut out for him me thinks.