My future

I've been feeling like crap this morning and I couldn't really work out why. That was until I realised what day it is. The day England leaves the EU.

When I think about my future, there is only one constant, and that's Berlin. The only thing I can see when I think of when I see myself settling down is moving to Berlin, once I decide it's time to find a place to live. I'm not sure when it will be, but I know that it's end game.

As of today, my future isn't quite seeming as easy as I thought it would be. The uncertainty of what is going to happen, regardless of what our government is promising us, is suffocating. The level of confusion that has come from the destruction that the Tory government has caused is intoxicating and I have no idea what to do next.

My future, and that of my brother's generation, my family's children's generation and all of those ahead of them, has completely changed as of today. I don't know if I'll be able to move to Berlin now, don't know if I'll be able to work there and support myself now that we've left. My future has never involved marriage, children or a mortgage, but it has involved travel and being able to sustain myself why I do so.

As well as not wanting to cement myself to the ground with a mortgage or family, I also know that I don't want to return to England. I mean, how could I? How could I willingly return to a country run by a government that thinks the opening of thousands of food banks across the country is a good thing, instead of focusing on helping people break out of life below the poverty line. As I said in wrote in my post Why I'm not moving back to England, it was suggested by the government that pension age should be raised to 75. My grandad died at 74, life expectancy in the North East and West of England is also 74. The government is suggesting that people are expected to work until after their death to receive any type of state pension. Why would I want to live under a government that thinks like that?

Theoretically, I still have a plan. Australia is on my list, as is New Zealand. I want to take advantage of my visa opportunities while I have the chance. While I was happy with the idea of never having a definite future plan, knowing that one day I'd end up living in my beautiful Berlin brought me the comfort I didn't know I needed.

And now I don't really know.

xXx 

My experience with PTSD

Of all the mental health issues I discuss openly, there are few I mention as little as my PTSD. Mostly because I don't really believe that mine exists. My brain rationalises it differently compared to other things. I was raped, but I managed to put the man that raped me in prison and it's over, so I can't still be experiencing things related to in this far in the future, can I?

I was diagnosed with PTSD when I was 24 I think, I don't really remember the exact time but I remember I was living in Essex with my Dad and working in London. I had no idea what it was, only that I was suffering from intense paranoia. My attitude to my symptoms is that I'm used to the ones I experience every day and I try to manage them but, when new symptom arrises, I know it's time to check in with my doctor.

As I didn't register with a new doctor when I moved to London, I got on a train back to Norfolk went to visit my mum. It's really difficult to book appointments at my doctor back home and so I turned up, got an on the spot appointment for that day and waited to see the nurse practitioner.

This was one of the only instances where I'd asked my mum to be in the room with me, because I didn't quite know what they were going to stay. As it turns out, I shoved her out within the first 30 seconds of the appointment. Old habits die hard and I didn't feel comfortable with her there. After she left, I fully explained my new symptoms and the back story of what had been going on over the past few years. Long story short, the previous events in my life had caused me to develop PTSD, and the paranoia was a result of my brain trying to deal with things in its own unique way. Like I said I didn't really believe what he was saying, PTSD just didn't seem like a rational connection to what had happened. Instead, I added it to the list of things my brain was dealing with, explained the updates to people at work and got on with things. I'd made it this far without letting being raped ruin my life and I wasn't about to start now.

Since then I very, very rarely talk about my PTSD. I don't think about it in connection with the rest of my symptoms, and instead, place it on a lower rung to everything else. After all this time I still don't still feel that I deserve such a diagnosis because I feel that what I went through wasn't really that bad and that in putting the man that raped me in prison I didn't really do anything.

There is no one on the planet harder on me than I am on myself.

We're currently in January and the start of one of the shittest periods of the year. Not only did I spend that year of University trying to complete my degree while simultaneously putting the man that raped me in prison, but I also lost a really good friend of mine. His birthday is in January, the man who raped me pleaded guilty at the beginning of March and Matt died towards the end. The trial was in April, on a day that cruley landed on that of Matt's funeral preventing me from being able to attend, and I was raped in the last weekend of May. To say things were difficult would be a bit of an understatement.

The only reason I am acknowledging my PTSD right now is because it stops me sleeping. On the anniversary of these events, it starts up once again and I'm unable to sleep. After a few days, it passes and I return to my schedule of near-constant unconsciousness, but will pop back up again until the end of May.

I'm struggling to sleep at the moment owing to last week having been Matt's birthday. That, combined with my experiencing Seasonal Affective Disorder means that, if I could, I'd happily skip the first five months of the year. It's something that I live with every year, and probably always will. If I could say a little prayer to the gods of BPD, it would be to give me a decent night's sleep, because I'm fucking exhausted.

xXx

Vulnerability

I wrote this post at the tail end of last year when I was on my way back from NYC, I'm just an epic faff and am only just getting round to posting it. Enjoy. 

The guy sitting next to me is writing. If this were a book or a movie he'd strike up a conversation about our shared love of literature, he'd ask me for my number, and in a few short weeks I'd be meeting his parents over brunch whilst secretly thanking the gods that there was only a 0.0001% chance of him meeting mine. 

I'm not a fan of parental introductions. 

Obviously, real life isn't like that. After striking up a brief conversation about millennial cliches, instagramable beverages and the possibility of paying my rent in exposure, I returned my attention to season 2 of You. Attempting to distract myself from the fact that my left butt cheek has gone to sleep and I still have 8 hours of this journey to go. That fantasy is over, the hypothetical spark extinguished before it even had a chance to light. The candle burnt out. 

One of the benefits of this extinguished premature fantasy, other than the possibility of its invading my preference for solo and (semi) isolated living, is that I'm prevented from falling into the deathly relationship trap I seem to find so comfortable. The role of the life time I never auditioned for, the part no one really wants. 

Yes, I finally figured it out. I'm a carer. 

When I was a teenager my mum had an eating disorder. Now, aside from desperately craving and suffering from one of my own, a significant part of my teen years were spent trying to get her to eat. Now I find it impossible to separate myself from the worry that she might have stopped eating again. 

My mum wanted to be thin, I wanted to be thin and loved. In my eyes, I was neither.

Recently I've come to realise that, ever since then, I've fallen into the pattern of trying to form relationships with people that I felt needed looking after. My first boyfriend had no dad, my second had no dad and (ironically) an eating disorder and my ex who had no dad and depression. 

Do you see a pattern forming? 

In total, I've dated four guys who had no father figure, three with mental health issues and at least two who were in love with their exes. Regardless of their personal situations, the majority had two things in common. I subconsciously wanted to take care of them and, in the end they didn't care about me. 

What I'm trying to work out on this obnoxiously long journey, back to Canada is not just why I find myself in situations with people I want to care for but also why I can't find someone to care for me. 

Despite my balls out attitude to personal honesty and my refusal to conceal myself, I'm really bad at letting people get close to me. Don't worry this isn't an "I'm a tortured soul no one understands me" trope, but rather a complete and utter fear of being vulnerable. 

The issue of vulnerability is an interesting one. If we are required to open ourselves up in order to find love, how do we cope with the accompanying vulnerability that comes along? As a borderline, it's ingrained in me that people will leave. For whatever reason, I assume one day they're just not going to be there anymore and so I close myself off from forming new relationships with people to avoid the pain that comes with their departure. The pleasure of having someone near me does not negate the pain that remains when they leave. I'd rather have nothing at all. 

xXx

Call me by your name, or maybe just don't call at all

A little travel snap from my Instagram, @thatnomadjess

Spoiler alert

I've just finished reading André Aciman's Call Me by Your Name and the thing fucking broke me. Last time I felt this way about a book my friend had just died and I'd reached the part in David Nicholls' One Day where Dexter and Emma are finally together but then she gets hit by a truck. The two events didn't sit comfortably together, and I've never read the book again.

Other than a few noted absences in the final section of the book, there are no big deaths in Call Me by Your Name, instead, it's their relationship that effectively dies. That summer exists for all of us, me included, and we never really get the love we feel during that year's particular heatwave back. I remember who I fell in love with during my 'summer', remember the moment we met, the first words he said to me and the first time we kissed. I also remember the last time we spoke after 6 torturous years of my being in love with someone who would never love me back. After struggling to let go for over half a decade, I'm pleased to say I don't miss him anymore.

The reason I still crying over the book in question is that, as a borderline, there is nothing I simultaneously crave and fear more than being loved. The loneliness of BPD is agonising. We're known for our temperament and attachment issues to the point that the idea of someone falling for us is impossible, laughable even. The idea that someone could be able to love not only me but the thing that lives in my brain that permeates every thought I ever had seems to be nothing more than a fantasy, a fairytale that will never come to exist.

Not only is it laughable, it's also terrifying. Rightly or wrongly, although seemingly rightly given all the evidence I have on the matter, everyone I ever get close to romantically eventually leaves. I've been broken up with more times than I care to admit and it's suffocating to constantly find myself being rejected again and again and again. Whether it's someone who doesn't love me any more, someone who never did love me but told me they did or someone who was still in love with their ex, I've never been able to find someone to stick around, and I don't believe I ever will.

Just before I moved to Canada the first time, I tried to talk to my ex about how I felt about someone and he responded with "You fall for people too quickly, you can't force love." Now, not only was his evidence of this unprecedented, as he'd mistook my reluctance to sleep with him straight away, unless our connection was going to be more than a come-and-go situation, for my wanting to be with him long term after only three dates, but it also hurt like hell. To me, to a borderline, what that told me was that I won't be able to find someone to love me, that the fault of my being alone lays solely at my own feet and that there's nothing I can do about it. Whatever his words truly meant, what they said was that the only way I would ever be able to find someone to love me was if I forced them, and that is something you just can't do.

I've always been reluctant to admit that I like people, even in high school I found it impossible to write in my diary that I had a crush on my friend, terrified that even by putting my words down on paper I would somehow feel the pain of rejection. There's a guy at work I have a bit of a thing for and today my colleagues were telling me to go for it. I think they saw my reluctance and comments on my chronic insecurities as a joke, but they're not. Being rejected as a borderline result in an indescribable pain I can feel in every pore, something I really have no physical feeling to compare it to. The sensation is agonising and indescribable, but all I've ever been able to envisage in my romantic future is rejection.

As a result of this, I don't talk about my feelings. People know about the crushes I may have on people, subtlety has never been my strong point, but I can never, ever tell people how I really feel when it comes to dating. Truth is, I want so so desperately to not be alone, and ending things with the guy I was seeing seems to have hit me harder than I thought it would. Not because I want to be with him, the guy is a fucking douche bag, but because I'm back in the same position I was before. Of being alone, and desperately wanting to be loved.

There are a thousand more things I can say on the matter, this shit show is only the start of how it feels to trying to date when you have BPD, but I want to start reading something more cheerful before I get to sleep. At the very least so I don't waste any more loo roll trying to get the almighty amount of snot out of my head that has formed in my hour spent crying at this fucking book.

André Aciman, you destroyed me.

xXx

Let's not push that button

Once again, an inexplicable image that turns up when you type a word into Pixabay. This time, it was slip.

Have you ever read Lolita? Humbert Humbert, trying to convince the reader he's a good person despite being a raging paedophile. An unreliable narrator, as the analysts say, and the catalyst for a post that may or may not make any sense.

As a borderline, I never know whether or not what I'm feeling is the right thing. I rationalise my feelings despite them having no relation to what other people may expect me to feel. Fallen over on my way to work? It's because I had breakfast that day. Being raped by a complete stranger? The fault of his actions instead of my own.

Freudian slip time, I actually typed "my actions" first instead of his

What I'm trying to work out today is how my personality and thought process may or may not lead to be considered an unreliable narrator in my own story. What is it that I'm trying to say? Do I have anything to say? Is my balls-out determination to refuse to let the life of a borderline be hidden in shadows that may or may not exist who I am? Or is it irrelevant?

I'm currently watching You, and there's a character in it that talks about developing your own brand. What is mine? Is it crazy? Is it borderline? Is it that of a woman that was raped who can never let go of the fact that I was raped? Who knows if I'm meant to get over it, I thought I was. I used to joke during the trial that I'd rather I deal with it now than while I served a three-course dinner to a non-existent family, dropping a turkey and falling into hysterical tears because I hid what I was feeling from the world. What constitutes dealing with things? I don't know and I don't know if I ever will.

Or do I? Who knows.

There's nothing reliable about being borderline, I can't control it and I never will be able to. Is that all that I am? Some days yes and I'm fully aware that I've asked a lot of questions in this post. I don't know, maybe I never will, but do I really need to find out if I'm more than who I think I am?

My mum thinks so, but that's another story.

xXx for

Sympathy for the devil

Heads up, this post isn't about the Rolling Stones and, spoiler alert.

Being the balls out millennial that I am, I binge-watched You on Netflix like a mother bitch when it first came out. Partly because of my love of Penn Badgely and partly because, well my love of Penn Badgely. I loved it and ended up watching the entire second series on my way back from New York.

Incidentally, I had the first nightmare I'd had in as long as I can remember that night. It involved eggs, tsunamis and Penn Badgely beating a sink with a rolling pin. It didn't make much sense.

Don't worry, this post isn't going to be a post defending Joe for his actions, I'm not a psychopath. What it is going to be about is the protagonist's belief that he's doing the right thing. For all of Joe's faults, he really does believe that he's doing what needs to be done to protect and care for the people he loves. He killed the people that he thought we hurting Beck, killed the people he thought were coming between him and making her happy. All the way through he thought that he was doing the right thing, even though the rest of the world knew he wasn't.

You can calm down and move your thumb away from the 9 key, I'm not about to confess to murder, nor do I have any plans to commit murder. However, as a borderline, I can see a connection to Joe because he acts in a way that he thinks is appropriate, regardless of whether or not he's right. When I broke up with River, I contacted him way more than I should have. Desperately trying to convince myself that the reason he wasn't messaging me was that he was busy, trying to convince myself that a morning hello message was nothing more than a light and breezy comment that was going to develop into a day-long conversation that would bring him back into my arms. All the while knowing that he was never, ever, going to want me.

Recently, as in two days ago, I broke up with a guy I had been seeing for about six months after I finally realised that he was a complete douche. He was weirdly obsessed with homeless people, considered respecting the chosen pronouns of the trans and non-binary community to be pandering to mental illness and told me that feminists believe that all men are rapists, despite the fact that he knew I'd been raped. In contrast to my relationship with River, my actions towards this guy were a representation of how what I thought I needed to do for me to be happy. I thought I wanted to be with him, thought that he was my only option. In a similar sense to how I felt when I was in my last long-term relationship, I believed that I had no other choice than to feel like shit throughout every moment I spent with him because I believed I didn't deserve anything more.

As I said, I'm neither sympathising nor empathising with Joe, his character is not a good guy. What I'm saying is that there is one thing that I can relate to, and that's having no idea whether or not I'm feeling the right things or behaving in the right way, regardless of the situation.

Here's Sympathy for the Devil though, just in case you wanted it.

xXx

Fantasy or flagellation?

On today's episode of weird royalty-free images, I present a woman sat on a rock with a tiger. Found after typing love into the search bar. 

I've just finished reading a Vice article that discussed why we fall for people that don't love us back. While it ended terribly as a significant percentage of Vice articles do, the topic itself really hit home. Of all the things I'm guilty of, falling head over heels for people who don't feel the same way about me is something I can relate to.

Whilst the article didn't really discuss or address why we do this, all it really did was tell people to fuck the person you're in love with as a means of getting the fantasy out of your head, the actual act of falling for someone who doesn't return your feelings is something I've tried to figure out time and time again. Why do I do it? Why can I not nip things in the bud the second I realise they're not going anywhere? I'm not oblivious to the fact that it's a borderline thing, the connection between love, pain and rejection is a key component within BPD, but that doesn't necessarily mean I understand why I do it.

When you fall for someone who doesn't return your feelings, what you're really doing is telling yourself, and them, that your feelings don't matter. This is especially true if you continue to spend time with them, which I always, always do. I was with my ex on and off for about 3 years and, despite the fact that we did each and everything that couples do together, he never admitted that he felt anything for me. Whether he did or not I really don't know and, as we haven't seen or spoken to each other in over 2 years, I'm never going to find out. What I do know however is that, right from the beginning, I should have bolted when I had the chance.

Another thing I'm guilty of is spending time with people who's company causes me pain. With people who I'm not happy around. I've recently worked out that there are multiple reasons for this. One is that, in true borderline style, I can't bring myself to let go of a relationship no matter how toxic it is for fear of being alone. Not only this, but I always feel I deserve to be unhappy because of how little I think of myself. For whatever reason, I feel as if I don't deserve to be happy, don't deserve to be loved.

Not only am I guilty of allowing myself to be put into these situations, but I'm also guilty of allowing people to keep me a secret. Of allowing people to hide me away without acknowledging the connection we have, either to others or ourselves. When I was in high school, someone told me they liked me but wouldn't let me tell anyone else, presumably because they were embarrassed by the fact that they had feelings for me. At the time I didn't really think much of it but, in reality, it's kind of a dick move.

Ironically, since then he's slid into my dms on more than one occasion trying to get into my pants, most recently when he had a long term girlfriend. Ah, dating in your twenties.

When I think of the things I've put up with in the past, I really could kick myself. When I first moved here I developed feelings for an absolute twat that I, bizarrely, still talk to and actually met for coffee earlier this week. He cheated on his girlfriend when we hooked up, lied about spending time with me and told me that my hugging him was "too much", in fear that someone might, I don't know, see I guess.

He's also a pathological liar and has recently been added to my list of things that need to stay in 2019.

What I can't work out though, is why I do this to myself. Why do I continuously allow myself to be put in situations where I feel like utter shit in fear of the alternative being alone? It's painful for me to type this, I can't say it out loud and it's a lot for me to write the words, but I would like to be with someone right now. Even typing the words I'm justifying in my head why I shouldn't be able to. After all, I always believe that I deserve to be treated badly, but in reality, I don't. There are a lot of things I need to work on in order to fully be happy with myself, but my tendency to inadvertently cause myself pain by allowing other people to hurt me really has to stop.

Any tips would be greatly appreciated.

xXx 

I don't have a title for this post but I am angry

Please forgive me for any typos in this post, I'm in Montreal and I can't work out how to use the keyboard properly 

As a borderline, I'm lucky enough to be able to experience a range and intensity of emotions so vast and eclectic that a good 90% of the time I have zero idea what they are. Having a brain that works this way is frustrating, but there's fuck all I can do about it so I just have to ride it out.

It may come as a surprise, but one of the emotions I enjoy feeling the most is anger. Why? Because when you live with a condition that causes you to feel things to such an intensity that it reverberates through your every cell, it's nice to be able to identify what you"re actually feeling. 

As you may have guessed, I'm feeling quite angry today. Or at least I was when I wrote this post on the train to Montreal yesterday. Lately, I've been working towards doing what a lot have people say I should be doing as standard and attempting to talk about my feelings. Whilst I'm giving myself snaps for giving it a go, I have to say that it really is complete and utter bullshit. 

When people ask if you want to talk about something, a significant percentage of the time they don't give a shit. Instead, what they're doing is making themselves feel better by acting like they care. They don't. Met with nothing but dismissal when you open up about how you're feeling? Bullshit. Being told that you shouldn't feel the way you do when someone asks how you are? Total crap. And let's not forget my personal favorite, being told how you feel. As a borderline, I can tell you that there really isn't a word for that one.

An example of people merely acting like they give a shit happened, happened not too long ago when I tried to talk to someone about my feelings towards money. 

Since I was a teenager, I have suffered from really bad financial anxiety. Having money freaks me out because I'm not used to it and, when I do, I spend it on things I don't need. This then plunges me back into being completely broke, only this time I can't afford the things I actually do need such as food, travel and my medication. When I just have enough money to get by, I spend money sensibly and the feeling of all-consuming guilt I experience when I spend money momentarily eases. 

Ah, borderline guilt. That's one for another day. 

When I mentioned to someone I was feeling like this they replied by saying that I should be grateful, as some people don't have a penny to their name. This wasn't exactly received with the most welcoming of arms I have to say. 

Now, don't get me wrong, I am grateful. Grateful and thankful for my job that it took me ages to find and that I'm actually starting to enjoy again. What I'm not grateful for is the fact that I'm paid for it, because that's the entire point of having a job. 

Saying I should feel grateful for being paid for a job I do is like saying I should feel grateful for being clean once I get out of the shower. Yes, I'm grateful for access to the shower, for being able to afford the hot water and soap that may people don't have access to. What I'm not explicitly grateful is the fact that I'm clean, because that's the whole point of having a shower in the first place. 

Another example of people not giving a shit when they pretend to can be seen in my attempts to talk to or meet up with people. Now, I'm not completely oblivious to the fact that people have their own lives and other things going on and I would never dismiss or disregard that. Contrare to popular belief I'm not a complete selfish bitch. But when I'm the only one making the effort and I'm repeatedly being rejected or ignored, I'm starting to think that now might be the time to stop trying. Strangely, one of the people I'm most thankful for at the moment is someone who activly told me they didn't want me around. It's nice to actually know where I stand. 

To summarise this extremely transparent and not at all subtle post, I'm now adopting the way of thinking that simply says, if people don't make the effort to have me in their lives, I'm not going to make the effort to have them in mine. It's taking me a while to get there again, but I really think it's best for everyone involved. 

And please, please can people stop pretending that they care when they clearly don't give a shit. We both know you're lying you're really wasting everyone's time. 

xXx

Decisions decisions

I'm not feeling great today. I start work at 3:30 and, for some reason, I always struggle with days that give me my morning free. I feel in a sort of limbo as to what to do with the day that won't involve exhausting me/spending money that I don't have only to go to work for a few hours and not make it back. I'm fine once I get there, it's just the initial morning that I struggle with and I'm grateful for them in the end, as I know my apprehension is something I have to get over.

What's making me anxious this morning is, as always, thinking about my career. Writing is what I love to do and it's all I've ever wanted to do, but every time I sit and try to apply for a writing job my body tenses, my jaw locks and I'm filled with insecurities so intense I feel like a teenager again. I recently parted ways with a company I was freelancing for and it's knocked my confidence quite a lot. I'm not stressing over money, my rent and bills are paid and I'm actually happier and more content when I don't have any spare cash. If I don't have it, I don't want to spend it, so not having much in my bank account isn't actually bothering me at the moment.

Strange, I know.

My problem at the moment is that I have no one to talk to, no one I can hash out what I'm feeling without getting preachy and condescending responses. I don't want repeated answers of the same thing, I don't want to be treated like a child, I just want to be able to talk to someone about how I'm feeling about my career without judgement. I don't really have anyone to talk to about anything at the moment, and today it's making me feel a bit lost.

Feelings of insecurity are something I've always struggled with. Strangely, I'm quite a ballsy and confident person, but when it comes to my own abilities, I feel like nothing. Less than nothing. Few things make me happier than being locked away in my room, chained to my desk writing until my fingers don't make sense anymore but, for some reason, I'm plagued with insecurities whenever I try to do anything more than put words onto the screen. Writing makes me happy, it brings me so much joy, but for some reason, I can't feel comfortable in my abilities unless someone is paying me to do it. Despite having a job I quite enjoy and being comfortable with there being zero money in my bank account, I feel the need to be paid for what I do in order to feel validated.

When I got my first writing job I was excited, I thought I'd finally reached my goal of finding a "proper" job and that I was about to feel the validation I so desperately craved but, as it turns out, this wasn't the case. I don't know how much I liked it if I'm honest, but I know that it wasn't the job for me.

After I got back from travelling I started freelancing and I can honestly say it was one of the most stressful periods of my life. There is nothing quite as stressful as never knowing when you are about to lose your income. I was convinced every day that I sat at my desk at Secret Sales that someone was going to come over to me and fire me. Admittedly, I wasn't in the greatest place mental health-wise which didn't help, but it was still incredibly stressful. I don't know why, but I seem to need the validation of permanent employment to reassure me that I'm good at what I do.

I think part of this is because, when I was younger, I myself saw something wrong with people not working "proper" jobs. That somehow other people weren't doing as well and that I didn't want to be like them, not for once considering the fact that a) they were happy b) the job market is awful and c) that it was none of my fucking business. I'm happy to admit when I'm wrong, and I'll confirm that my beliefs were not only wrong but also incredibly bitchy.

My insecurities are something I'm going to carry with me wherever I go, they're something I know I need to work on but I'm aware that it's going to take time. Until then I'm just going to try and be a bit nicer to myself, whilst listening to The Doors because that always makes me happy.

xXx

No day but today

My Canadian visa runs out this year. I've been here since November 2018 and although it's been an experience, not a single part of me wants to apply for permanent residency. Not because of any particular reason, I just want to move on to something new.

However, I'm finding the idea of taking my next steps post-Toronto very stressful. As with everything, a lot of money will be involved in finding my next adventure, but my impending savings goal is not the only thing that's causing me confusion. You see, for so long, the idea of my having a future seemed bleak and non-existent and I had no picture of what would happen in a year, a month, or even a day. Now I know I have a future, I'm finding it hard to feel content.

Part of the reasoning for this is that my entire life seems to have been spent reaching for something new. In high school, I was fighting to reach my non-existent goal weight, in sixth form and college I was fighting to get into university. For the first two and a half years of university, I was fighting to complete my degree and for the last year and a half, I was fighting to put the man who raped me in prison. After that came my desperate attempts to find, what at the time I deemed to be, a "proper" job, but once I found the job I thought I wanted, I was hungry for something new.

You get the idea.

Having nothing to fight for seems alien to me. I'm not referring to the idea of possessions, I've turned into quite the minimalist since I've started to travel, but more of the idea that I'm not good enough. If I accept that I currently have nothing to work towards, am I telling myself that I'm happy to stay in a state of failure? Or am I not as much of a failure as I am used to thinking I am?

Once again, an alien concept.

My mum says that I don't need to be so "tough", that I don't always need to try so hard but even the concept of those two things doesn't make any sense to me. Whilst my past experiences would suggest that easing up on myself and admitting that things really are okay, I'm not used to being happy with myself and I have no idea how to be.

I decided to take January off from trying to work on my savings for my next step, mostly because I desperately needed a month off from worrying about money and I felt that paying off my credit card bill was a financial achievement in its own right. But, once the month is over, am I going to return to my state of feeling like a failure because I believe that what I'm fighting for is out of my reach? Or am I going to be able to accept that I'm doing okay, that it's okay to feel content and that, as with everything I've ever set my mind to, things will work out okay?

Stay tuned.

xXx

Is it because I'm a boarderline, or are you just an asshole? A discussion

The photo above has absolutely nothing to do with being annoyed, but it appeared in the search results when I typed pissed off into Piixabay, and it made me happy, so it's staying.

If I were to describe today's mood, it would be that of Gary from down the road when he discovered that his local kebab shop serves Halal meat. There's no one reason for my crankiness, more of a combination of things that seem to have reared their ugly head, much like the equally hideous and painful blisters that have recently appeared on my face, over the last few days.

Whoever said that acne disappeared when you left your teens was balls-out lying.

Anyway, one of the things on my mind today, that has been on my mind for a while actually, is the impossibility of my trying to discuss a situation, feeling or opinion with someone without them shooting me down. Without them telling me that it's not the right thing for me to do or think and that I should be doing something else with my life or thinking/acting a certain way. I'm not overly sure if this is a response to my condition, or because some people are just cunts.

A prime example of this actually happened a few years ago, when moving to Canada was first on my mind. A "friend" felt the need to tare me down because I'd gotten annoyed that she'd turned up 2 hours late for an event of her organisation after I'd walked to Liverpool Street Station from Hackney downs at 5 am to get to her. On top of this, it was deemed "shitty" that I hadn't greeted her significant other with open arms despite the amount of time she spent telling me what a cunt he way.

Why I would be nice to someone who hurt someone I cared about is beyond me, but apparently, that's what I was supposed to do.

Anyway, during this conversation, I inquired as to why the person in question had said she didn't think I should go to Canada, or why she felt the need to tell me I shouldn't do something like this in general. Last time I checked it was my life but, as I've mentioned above, sometimes it seems that people feel entitled to tell me I'm doing something wrong just because I often don't think or act in a way they think I should. Would they say this to someone who didn't experience similar symptoms to mine? I'm not sure, but I am sure that such opinions are vastly unwelcome.

The following examples also pertain to my moving to Toronto, but without specific examples.

When I first told people I was about to move, a lot of people felt the need to make negative comments. I'm not expecting everyone to be excited about my move, but shutting up is often preferable to saying something rude. Yes, I'm aware of the fact that Canada is an expensive place to live. Yes, I am also aware that it's cold. But do you know where else is expensive and cold? England, only this way I have the added benefit of getting to do something I"ve always wanted to do, whilst simultaneously making use of my equally stubborn and brave nature.

Next up, we have people who seemingly have a problem with the fact that bar having general ideas, I don't often have a concrete plan of what I want to do next. I'm sorry, is the fact that I'm not 100% sure where I want to move to after my Canadian visa has run out any of your business? I don't remember it being, but seeing as a lot of people I know feel the need to drop their 2 cents in, despite not being brave enough to emigrate themselves despite constantly complaining about their current living situation, maybe I missed the memo. Just because my plan isn't concrete, or even remotely the same as yours, doesn't mean there's something wrong with it.

I'm going to write another post in a similar vein to this, predominately on people projecting their fear of taking risks on to me, but for now, I'm going to enjoy my herbal tea while I remember that it's my life, and no one else's, and I can do whatever I fucking want with it.

xXx