Waterloo

‘It’s a question of trust’ – Depeche Mode – A question of lust

Not really sure how this entry will pan out. I’ve been surfing the net for the last three hours and have thoughts swirling round my head. It’ll be hard to explain because I can’t. What I want to say I can’t because I always said if there was a problem with Duncan I would discuss it with him first, not here. It’s not even a problem, really, just my head and me being very silly. I’m not trying to worry anyone, it’ll pan out in the end and everything will be fine. It’s just hard to see that point now cos I so desperately want to talk to him and at this moment he’s at a Motorhead concert with friends. Venting here, in a round about way, is my only solution.

I have self-esteem issues. Always have. I was a skinny, blonde little girl until about 10. Then my hair darkened to it’s now, crappy, shade of brown and I put on weight. I hardly ballooned, but there was a difference. There are loads of photos of me up until the age of about 13 and then they dwindle. I detest having my photo taken, absolutely detest it. I look at them and feel terrible. That can’t be me in those pictures. Does my face really look like that to other people?

Since then I’ve never been a slim girl. I never will be, it’s not in my genes. I’m also not a severely overweight girl either. I have curves, god dammit I’m a woman. But I hate my body. I look at it sometimes and want to cry. It’s a good job we don’t have a full length mirror at home, I’d probably never leave the house in the morning. I know I’m not perfect, but Duncan’s always telling me I am. Telling me how beautiful I am, how sexy I am. I laugh at it every time. I certainly rarely feel it and I definitely don’t feel it at this moment. I feel ugly, fat and unattractive. And I feel like he’s always thought that.

I thought the seven year old had gone. She’s been so quiet recently (probably shocked into silence following terrible programmes at work. I’m subtitling 28 days later at the moment, a movie which should not be watched whilst eating!) My counsellor, those many, many months ago, thought she was some product of my utter loneliness and sadness at the time. That she’d come back because losing her gran was the hardest thing she’d coped with and it was safer at age 7, when everything was wonderful with the world for a few months (if only she didn’t get woken up by her drunken father arguing with her mum). But she’s back. I want to curl up under the duvet and cry my heart out. And even if I did that, I don’t think things would be any better.

But I’m not making any sense. Not to you, not to me. Maybe counselling again is a good idea, or maybe I just need to learn that my body is mine, it’ll never change and it’s something I’m going to have to learn to live with. Or maybe I just need to quit whining and remember that without sad times, I’d never be able to appreciate the happier moments.

Until there is a next time…

xx