I’m not like other girls.
Go on, how’s that for a nicely wrapped up in self notion to start off the emo-entry for today? The weird thing is, I’m oddly terrified of admitting that. I suspect, were I to get all Freudian I could prolly blame my parents, I embarrassed them a hell of a lot growing up (and, oh yeah believe me I knew it)., on the other hand I’m twenty six years old. That’s officially too old to have a job within the sex industry unless you’re already established, so I’m pretty sure that it’s also too old to blame my parents for the fact that I’m pretty damn miserable right now. Of course I was never that big on blaming them when I was supposed to be, all black clothes and hair and teeny angst.
I honestly think I’d forgotten quite how bad it gets down here. I look around just like I’ve always looked around and I see people who have it a hell of a lot worse than me and I think I’m not really depressed. Someone else used the dreaded d-word today and it’s like a little fucking light goes on, oh yes, someone else said it – that’s allowed.
Back to my favourite topic of the moment, my mental health, I’m not like other girls and it worries me. I look around me and pretty much most of my friends (girls) are looking for romance and love and all the rest of it with one other person, a bloke, and for all I’m in a polyamorous relationship I still have this nagging voice, at the back of my head telling me that I have no right to be like this. I have no right to want what I want, do what I do, love who I love. Looking around I find that people everywhere, my friends, my family, my… nearest and dearest have emotions, reactions, understandings that I don’t have a clue about. And this little fucking voice in the back of my head is making me forget all the times I’ve said, hey, fuck the world, fuck that the more I find out about this planet the more I realise that my views, my way of being, it’s a little bit like some things but it’s so completely different … and I think that that scares a part of me and so she keeps on talking in the back of my head and telling me I should be doing things that would kill me.
S’when I listen to that voice that I do the things that really fuck me over and I’m not careful about who I claw down with me when I get to that stage either. That’s the problem with being like me, poly plus me on my most snakelike descent into the swamp really don’t mix. I worry, I worry so much that me being like this is going to cause all those wonderful happy moments to leave and go away and never come back.
When I was so sad last year the best parts were dozing off in a heap with FJ and Lexy, going to have a late lunch with Mother-In-Law and FJ and breakfasting with FJ, Lexy and the Jellicle Cat.
Fuck the world. Just let me get out of this swamp so I can believe myself when I say that. Just let me get this voice out of my head teling me that being this weird doesn’t work, that I’m supposed to be a real girl because whenever I go down that road this is where I end up, this or somewhere close.
Course I’m blogging this after a dinner of pickled onions, pickled eggs and half a bag of icing sugar so I could be talking crap.