Stories I tell myself

The beginning of this one might not make sense, but I will get there if you stick with me.

I love love. I love romance books, I love romance in TV shows and movies and fuck I even used to spend stupid amounts of money on episodes and chapters (the games) and shorts just so that I could watch/make characters fall in love with each other. The idea of love and being in love has always been important to me. And I can’t help thinking that I will never find it.

I’m watching Off Campus, because of course I am, I wouldn’t miss it. But I’m watching all of the beautiful people and I can’t help but compare myself. Logically, I know that they work hard to look like that, and their worth has absolutely nothing to do with how they look, but for some reason mine does. I know its fiction, I know that when I do find love (I said when…but I feel if) it won’t be like that and all that shit and that person will love me for everything I am and everything I’m not but I don’t actually know what that looks like. Hell, my psychologist made me realise my first healthy relationship is with my current best friend, and I met her 4 or 5 years ago. How am I supposed to find that in a forever partner if she is the first person in my life I have a healthy relationship with, let alone the first person in my life who has healthy relationships with their family and partner? Anyway, she doesn’t judge me for my brain, she understands it, rationalises it and tells me that she has these thoughts too, and makes me feel like it’s okay. Fuck she’s amazing.

Anyway I went off topic. The other day, my dad sent me a picture of myself from when I was like 16 or 17 and my god I remember being her. I’d decided to make myself giggle with my outfit that day and god I felt good, I didn’t wear it out or anything, but being a little silly made me feel good. I was looking at the photo and I thought, that beautiful little girl hated herself. She was scared. She hated how her body looked, she thought she was fat. And 30 year old me just wishes she knew how beautiful she actually was, maybe then I would know if I was or not? Because I am still that little girl, but I am so much bigger now. I mean, everyone weighs more than they did at 17, but if she could see me now, I worry what she would think. I mean, she’d be surprised we were still alive and didn’t follow the plan of being married by 25 and all that but honestly? I hope she would be proud of at least some of what I’ve done.

I have done some very brave things. I am kind. I am caring and considerate and gods and goddesses I hope I am a good friend. I want to remember these things are the important things. Not my body, or my face or my tits or what I can do for others. Everyone is worth more than their looks, but why can’t I see that about myself? Another thing to talk about with the psychologist. No wonder he told me sorting out my brain would take a while.

Anyway, tomorrow I’m going to wear an outfit that makes me feel hot and I am going to go to a psychic fair. I need new crystals, maybe I’ll find a new necklace or something that will help centre me. I also need some cleansing stuff. I need to start fresh.

I am going to add the photo of me, covering my face for internet safety, but I want her to know I am proud of her. She is strong, and she will do great things I just hope taking care of her will help me take care of now me, or at least keep working on it. So here is me. 17 years old-ish. Depressed. Undiagnosed ADHD and ASD. Lost and confused, trying to make myself laugh and be happy. I am sending you so much love little one, it’s a little late, but it’s there. I promise.