I’m Heartbroken by Everyone

Slowly realising there’s not a lot of people out there that make me feel particularly wanted. People on the internet are nicer, and more supportive than the friends I thought were closest, strangers are unnecessarily nasty and niceties seem to go unnoticed.

I’ve had a really low day, and to be honest, most Sundays feel pretty low, but today was a particularly shit one. I feel like I’m officially done.

I’m having to realise that there’s just me, my family and my two favourites babes (one is a kitten tho). And maybe I should just stop wishing for things that seem so simple, but clearly complicated for other people.

I wish adulthood didnt make everyone so self absorbed. And that there were more people who weren’t just here for themselves. Because while the selfless minority sit here upset about what they could possibly have done wrong to be treated this way, the selfish are oblivious to the pain they put other people in. And they get away with it. And despite doing as much as possible for other people, you’re always the one left feeling shit, while everyone else enjoys the easy ride in life.

I’ve been signed off work for another 4 weeks. Not one friend has checked in. Family have, people on the internet have, and yet nobody else. And honestly, I feel like the people at work who make me feel so bad I’m off work, are exactly the same as the rest of the people in the world. But I can’t be signed off from the world, can I? But I don’t like the people here.

I am constantly having my heartbroken over and over again by friends and by me giving people so many second chances, and I just don’t have the energy anymore.

To bottle up so much hurt and upset. And yet, by giving up, I have to give in to the chronic loneliness I feel.

And that’s scary and heartbreaking.

Is this Body Dysmorphia?

I don’t know when I started hating my appearance. Or when I became so obsessed with it.

Perhaps it was when I got my waist length hair cut ‘short’ for the first time and left the salon feeling like a grown up, only to see the monster of a weave slicked back in my headband didn’t look any different; and there began a never ending history of disappointing haircuts that made me feel a bit like a tamed beast.

Or maybe it was when a boy ran into me in year 2 and knocked my front teeth out, only for the new teeth to grow through crooked. Now I have a smile I try to hide; but being a basic bag of giggles, I spend most of my time screaming inside or retrospectively regretting whipping my grim smile out in the event of any joke – hoping the people around me aren’t freaking the fuck out about how my face just transformed into something much worse.

I don’t associate or recognise myself in photos other people have taken. And the stars have to align perfectly for me to find a good angle/lighting/mood/skin tone setting that makes me feel like I look average.

Because when I see photos people take of me, I see a very vulgar, manly looking thing. She’s not slim enough to werk it, or big enough to own some curves. Her hair is too flat and her nose too pointed. Her chin is too squishy, her face is too round and there’s too much skin on it… And when in anything tight fitting (which is most days as worry people will think I’m fatter than I am in baggy clothes), I see the podge that nobody else sees.

People ask me to smile for photos and I feel like a monster. My teeth on display, my mouth and face swell, the bags under eyes bunch up and it’s wrinkle central and I just prepare to be upset. Which is why the world of Instagram doesn’t see me happy. Or, you know, my face very often at all.

I always thought this was just me being overly self conscious. Freaking out that I didn’t look like everyone else; feeling like an outcast because contouring wasn’t on my list of things to do before school, but perhaps should have been. I quickly established that I would never feel the prettiest because there was always someone else I could find that made me jealous; someone more petite, skinnier, perfect teeth, hair that glistened yet looked amazing when messy.

I always wanted to be someone else.

But this was something I’d learnt to accept. Until recently when it’s all started creeping back up on me.

I’ve been on holiday for 9 days and probably only one picture of my face or body makes me feel good. I’ve hidden the Polaroids I took because my hair was in a ponytail and my face looked too round. I’ve felt disgusting over photos with my smile featured, or my tiny round tum on display.

And suddenly, I started to feel possibly more self conscious than I ever have. And for the first time, I’ve started to truly believe that there’s parts of life that I simply do not deserve.

And despite rationalising this idea that appearance doesn’t ‘earn’ you rights to anything, I can’t get it out of my head. I don’t deserve people being nice to me because I’m hideous to look at. I don’t deserve that managers’ job because I look like a washed up child. I haven’t earnt my place in a photo, or to really be seen smiling in public. I don’t deserve to have a boyfriend who thinks I’m beautiful. And maybe girl friends don’t stick around because I ruin their photos. Maybe I don’t really deserve to be loved at all.

I don’t know why this has all come about now, either. Perhaps is because I’m feeling like my weight is out of control. And by that I mean, I’ve gained about 5 pounds in 6 years.

I see myself as a pale, petite, skinny girl but my proportions no longer fit the bill for me when I look at myself. Yet I still put my size 6 clothes on every morning. Nothing drastic has changed and yet my hateful perspective has intensified.

On holiday I bought 2 skirts after concluding I couldn’t possibly wear any of my shorts (I took four sets) because all displayed that little bit at the top of your thighs that wobbles, and it made me sick.

Cept on the streets I saw ~ everyone ~ in shorts: Girls skinnier than me that made me feel jealous, girls bigger than me that made me feel jealous, old ladies who just outright shouldn’t be wearing shorts that short made me feel jealous. And I realised that there’s no winning here.

I see myself as something that I can’t capture in a photo. And I disassociate from the girl in pictures other people take of me, thinking ‘I can’t really look like that, can I?’ When I feel beautiful I could take a million selfies, and yet the facade would be crushed by one photo of me by someone else and I’ll vow to never take another photo again. And I become overwhelming terrified that those times where I feel good about how I look, I have no right to be. And I don’t know how to fix that.

But I think this is more of a problem than I thought; more than a girl being self conscious but snapping out of it when someone calls her pretty. I feel like this is much deeper and scarier. I don’t really know why this has happened or what could’ve caused it but it feels pretty shitty.

The Mind Closet: Coming Out to Your Parents

Pretty Empty Pockets

I’ve seen a lot of news stories recently about teenagers or young adults comitting suicide. Ive noticed it seems to always be the same story: Nobody knew they were suffering to start with.

Parents are always surprised at the news, and friends tend to just think ‘he was a bit sad’ but not like sad sad,and it really hits home just how important opening up about mental health is.

I was 18 when I had to quit University and move back home. It was at the end of term one. I didn’t even make it the year.

I’m no quitter, and I’ve always been encouraged to try my best. So quitting uni is probably the most traumatic thing that has ever happened to me, and will ever happen.

I had voices in my head and sleepless nights preventing me from focusing in lectures. I’d cry at night and pull…

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I fell in love before I was old enough to understand what love was.
I didn’t know how it would change me and mould my entirety. How it would go on to structure the future, and bore the past into my memory with flashbacks and bittersweet nostalgia.

Nothing prepared me for how it would burn and grow with dependency like an addiction inside me.
Falling in love, I didn’t realise the impact it would have: The power it would have to change the centre of the universe; or its ability to introduce a new theory of gravity that pulled me in a new direction.
I had thought love was a twinkle in the eye, a few glances at a party. An agreed secret where two people knew the other’s, but never confirmed it. I thought it was those deep conversations under the stars between two characters from different cliques.
I thought I was in love when I told my mum who I was crushing on when I was 10, as I twirled my hair in the hope he would notice my – what seemed so huge and obvious – subtle flirtation techniques.
But that wasn’t love.
Love wasn’t the warm and welcoming feeling I had for my second crush, either. Though to tell me such a thing at the time would have been a struggle.
Love wasn’t that glance and slight smile you gave someone in the hallway, yearning for it to be more one day.

It wasn’t that crush you and your bestie talked of at sleepovers as you devised a plan to get them to notice you.
No, I didn’t know what love really was till it hit me in the face like a fucking bus. A hit so powerful it was an immediate addiction with no hope of recovery.
Love was somehow this energy that defied all logic; something that made even the strongest, toughest, most rebellious seem so weak and vulnerable. The most beautiful combination of passion and hope, necessity and dreaming – defying all odds and growing stronger within, day after day, even in the absence of reciprocation.
It’s this light, optimistic feeling like a sprinkling of icing sugar on top of a cake.

It’s a tiny cotton thread that links and binds and ties two people together with an unbreakable connection that no outsider can see.
Love is like nothing else.
But love is also cruel, and can never be unfelt – it’s always there and it never lets you forget. It’s a heavy bag of memories and time that you carry with you forever, whilst that tiny thread continues to shape and mould your decisions. And as you part and move further into the future, that tiny cord pulls and pulls stretching tightly around your heart, even after all is said and done. Keeping your life intertwined with theirs, preventing that empty void inside from caving in and filling itself, calmly waiting until the missing jigsaw piece comes back to make you whole again.
But young love is even more dangerous; it’s tragic. It’s a fire. A heat, a comfort, a flame that gets too hot. It burns within so deep and makes its mark so prominent that victims will never appear the same again.
Their eyes will always seek each other in a crowd. Their lips won’t feel right on anyone else’s. Their words won’t mean so much in conversation. Until that tiny cotton thread snaps and triggers a panic and longing for what was. An impossible desperation for a life left behind. A confusion and necessity to find that missing jigsaw piece, or anything to stop the void inside caving in – so that you can remind yourself constantly of what love was, what it did, and where it will always be.
My love caused an ugly jealousy; an overwhelming guilt to do better, be better, deserve better.
Love wasn’t a twinkle it the eye, it was fireworks. Sparks that reflected so bright in the pools of blue staring back at me from my protector, as we stood in the cold, outside that cobbled street house on the night the new year began.
The story began years before, when the pool blue eyed boy had offered his friendship, at a time when things seemed so confusing and wrong.