I think I need the next few days to myself, alone, to reflect.

To contemplate.

To think.

To rage.

To feel sorry for myself.

To cry, to sob, to howl, to scream.

Time to realise how far I have come, and how much it has taken for me to get here.

The journey I have been on, and the memories, the people and the life I have lost, and found, along the way.

To be back in my childhood home, it has made me think, and remember.

Happy, sad, angry, sorrow. It is all here, seeped into the walls, and burned into my memory. The bedroom where I grew up, where I slept, giggled, loved, hated and cried, and felt the biggest loss of my life.

It’s not mine anymore. The memories I hold dear to me, they have been painted over with a fresh coat, and the carpet re-layed- as if none of it ever happened.

The bathroom, where I washed the blood from myself when I miscarried my baby- it has all been ripped away, all to be replaced with a fresh calm, as if the hours I spent in there washing my body, hating my reflection, watching as my body changed, it is as if it never happened,

All I have are the memories of these happening.

None of them ever happened, according to what I see now.

All I can see is calm.

I don’t feel calm.

I am angry.

Angry at my mother, who without knowing what I have been through, feels as though she can make judgements, have opinions.

The same mother who I feel, was not there for me- emotionally distant in the years that I needed someone to turn to the most.

The same person who is supposed to love and support me ( not that she doesn’t. I love my mother very much) is the same person who taught me to hate what I see in the mirror, to fear foods, and to fear getting fat.

The same person who has me torn. She judges me for being jaded about a friend who did not have the guts to be honest to us until we had both left our home town last year, and yet is more than happy to not pass comment about another friend who slept with my best friend’s boyfriend. Who does not know to this day.

Is it any wonder that I am feeling confused. Upset. Bitter.

I could not tell her about my pregnancy at seventeen, nor my subsequent miscarriage.

I could not tell her of my struggles with my body image and food. To this day, I cannot put on a pair of jeans without worrying there may be a fat roll for her to point out and say “That wouldn’t happen if you exercised”.

I hate my body.

People say that they blame their mother for everything. I do not blame her for everything. I just blame her because she made me feel like I could never be honest with her.

I am hurt, because I am finally coming to realise that I say “yes” too often.

Yes, I’ll look after your child at a moment’s notice.

Yes, of course I can give you a lift.

Yes, of course I can travel 500 kilometres just for your birthday.

Yes, I’ll meet you at that time because it might not suit me, but it suits you.

Yes, I’ll cover you and you can pay me back.

Yes, I’d love to see you!

I’ll offer to help you out because you have no car temporarily and you don’t have the decency or honesty to let me know you actually don’t want to see me.

I’ll always be there for you, but as soon as I need a favour/lift/friend, you’re suddenly busy.

I hate being a yes person.

I hate not having the guts to say no, to let someone down, giving up my own time because I am a nice person. I wish I could say no.

No, I want to crawl under the covers and cry.

No, I do not want you saying “yes” when you mean “no”. Rather than making me feel as though I am not good enough for you. That you are simply way to busy to spare an hour for me.

No, I want you to come to me.

No, I feel horrible and want someone to talk to.

I want someone to understand.

I feel confused. Being home again, and remembering. I think I feel as though none of it is real. As if nothing happened, as if I am a ghost.

I am Alice in Wonderland.

Watch me fall….

Being here, in my childhood home, in my home town, it dredges up so many feelings and memories, ones that completely contradict the person I am now.

Where I live now, I feel whole, complete, grown-up, free, happy.

At home, I feel young, lost, vulnerable, trapped and burdened with memories.

Memories that I can’t let go. Because I know they are important- they are proof that I have lived, that once, all of this stuff was important. I think these are too important to let go, and yet, they are holding me back.

It too me a long time to find myself, and yet, when I am here…

I feel as though I am lost again.

And I HATE that.

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