Tag Archives: daily post

20th September 2016

Dear friends,


Yesterday I had my first session with a therapist and I feel like I actually got some advice that is going to help me improve my mental health to a certain extent. I don’t have the best history with therapists or councillors so I’m taking everything she tells me to try with a pinch of salt. Her advice was to get out of bed at the same time every morning no matter what time it is so that my body clock understands the difference between waking up and going to sleep everyday.

When I go to bed it isn’t to go to sleep, I go to bed to watch TV programmes that I know my Granddad doesn’t like in the slightest and chill out. I go to bed not feeling tired, spend a few hours playing around with my laptop and I don’t get to sleep until at least three in the morning. Normally, my thoughts and worries keep me awake at night.

Last night I decided to make a change and actually give her advice a try. So, I took a sleeping pill, found a notebook and pen and started to write until I fell asleep. It took an hour and a half, but I did eventually fall asleep at half past ten at night. I haven’t fallen asleep at half past ten since I was in high school when I would get up at six in the morning. I woke up at half past eight and strangely felt very refreshed; for once in my life I actually wanted to get out of bed.

I hate getting out of bed when I actually have to let alone when I don’t need to. Having said that I’m going to carry on forcing myself to actually get up instead of rolling over and going back to sleep because I don’t want to get up. I don’t enjoy having to take sleeping pills every night; so maybe writing things down and changing my sleeping habits will be what helps with my weight loss and my depression?




15th September 2016


Well, today marks the end of another week at Slimming World and with every week that passes I enjoy the process even more. This week I lost half a pound and I’m very proud of my achievement because it means that in six weeks I lost half a stone (that’s seven pounds if you live outside of the United Kingdom). To some of you half a pound probably isn’t that big of a deal but to me it’s another achievement in my weight loss journey to getting my life back.

I’ve come a long way since the start of my journey; when I think back to how I used to look I don’t feel anything but relief and pride. Relief because I’m not that person anymore and pride because of how far I’ve come both physically and mentally. I’m very proud of how much I’ve changed on my own; but the cycle of being overweight is stopping with me. I am not going to allow my own children to make the same decisions I made because I don’t want them to hate themselves as much as I hated myself. That would probably be the biggest mistake I could make as a parent who knows how hard it is to be that overweight especially as a teenager.

I was thinking about how much weight I’ve lost all together and after some very complicated converting of weights I was very shocked when I worked out that I’ve lost 3 stone 9.5 pounds (51.5 pounds or 23 kilograms) in the last five months.

While this is a big achievement it is slightly dampened by my own fears; I’ve never lost more than four stone, every time I do I hit a brick wall and I gain the weight back again. I’m 4.5 pounds away from that number and I’m worrying about how I’m going to get over that hurdle; I don’t know how I’m going to do it, especially with my birthday being two weeks away, but I do know that I’m not going to let anyone or anything get in the way of me leaping over that hurdle.

I hope that sticking with the Slimming World will be the thing I need to make that happen.




Dear friends,


It’s been seventeen days since I last posted anything and I’m sorry. It’s no excuse but I have been on sleeping pills and antidepressants since the beginning of this month and I feel like I’ve been walking around in a daze ever since.

I’ve grown up in a time when having a diary or journal was a big deal; it was like a sacred book that teenage girls only shared their inner most thoughts with. They held secrets of teenage crushes, daydreams and silly little things that would probably make us cringe and wonder what we were thinking when we wrote the entries if we flicked through the pages ten years later. It was a book that no one else was ever allowed to read and was normally hidden in a draw, under the bed or under the mattress.

I was one of those girls who always bought a journal, with every intention of writing something, no matter how random, every day for as long as possible before it would be forgotten about in the chaos of everyday life. My journals always had a padlock and key on the side to keep my secrets safe, but the padlock would remain locked and the pages would remain ink free. I didn’t have the kind of attention span that could be dedicated to something like a journal when I was a kid.

I love being able to write my feelings down through my blog posts; but I want my blog to be more than just a world where I force myself to write something based on a random word. I want my blog to be a world where I share my life and my inner most thoughts; I want to be able to express myself in a way that can connect with people, I want to find something that could go towards helping to ease my mental health.

I’ve tried daily blogging before but it didn’t work out very well because I didn’t know what I wanted my blog to be or where I wanted it to take me, I didn’t know the first thing about blogging when I started. But now I feel like I’m ready to dedicate time to my blog and develop it into everything I want it to become.

Maybe using my blog as a journal will be my answer to that?








Last night I made the mistake of thinking that someone would be able to help me with what I think is depression. I phoned my doctor’s office and was turned away for two reasons firstly, because of the Bank Holiday; the only way I’d be able to get an appointment would be to phone up on the day I wanted the appointment. And secondly, because the doctor’s office was three minutes away from closing for the weekend. I wasn’t asking to have an appointment that very minute, I just wanted to talk to someone who would know where I can get help because I want to know what is actually going on in my mind.

Because why would I want to spend the rest of my life wanting harm myself in some way? I’ve been depressed for about ten years without any help so what’s another eighty years without help? Yeah, I can see that ending really well.

I don’t want to have to rely on sleeping pills to get to sleep every single night. I don’t want to feel like I’m going to cry at any minute. I don’t want to hate myself. I don’t want to think about self-harming or killing myself. I don’t want to feel anger towards my family because of something I can’t control. I don’t want to think about how much better the world would be if I wasn’t in it anymore. I don’t want to isolate myself from my friends anymore.

I want to be able to feel normal for at least one day. Is that really too much to ask?


Jeopardise — https://dailypost.wordpress.com/prompts/jeopardize/

Dear friends,

I won’t lie to you, I’m not the easiest person to annoy or agitate. I’m the kid of person who will let things build up until my anger completely explodes onto one person. There are very few things in this world that instantly rile me up, probably because I don’t socialise enough to find situations in life that do annoy me.

That being said, I have found one programme on TV that annoys me every single time I watch it. In the UK the show is called Whitney Fat Girl Dancing. I try not to watch the show but it’s the kind of programme you love and hate at the same time.

I don’t have anything against Whitney for trying to do something about body shaming fat people; because it’s something that all overweight people experience at some point in their lives and something should be done about it. And I do like that she’s concerned about being happy and healthy for the rest of her life.

But what I really, really hate about this show and something that I don’t really have time for is her coming across like she’s full of excuses about doing something to lose the weight. She laughs off and gets defensive when people tell her that she needs to do something about her weight; which is normal for people who are in denial about how bad their health has become. I’ve been in those shoes.

Yes, she has lost 100lbs while on the show, which I completely commend her for because I do know how difficult it is to lose any kind of weight. Yes, I also understand that having PCOS (polycystic ovary syndrome) doesn’t make it any easier for her.

She has her own TV show, dance class, and has millions of women, including myself, who love her because of how positive she is about her body image; because it seems like she doesn’t care about what other people think of her weight which is something I would love to say that I’m comfortable with.

But how much longer can a thirty-two year old woman keep using PCOS as an excuse to do nothing about her increasing weight? Why isn’t being pre-diabetic enough to scare her into keep loosing weight? When will she take responsibility for the fact that her being overweight is partly her fault and stop jeopardising her health?






Eyes are the window to the soul. The meaning behind this quote is that when you look into someone’s eyes, like your partner’s, you are able to see their soul. We can see who they are as a person. To me this is a very romantic idea because I’d like to able to look into my future partners eyes and see who the real person behind their bravado is. On the other hand, like a window frame when you look out into the world through out eyes, we’re seeing with our souls but we are seeing the world through a framework, kind of like a window, that limits what can be seen.

In my family having blue eyes is more common than any other colour because we are descended from vikings who had blonde hair and blue eyes. But my Nan and I are the odd one’s out because we both have hazel (green) coloured eyes. In a way it makes me stand out amongst my friends and family especially because I have several bleeds in my eyes. Kind of like Madeline McCan’s eyes but more like flecks of colour. (I have these bleeds because of an accident I was involved in two years ago.)

It’s not something that anyone notices because I’m overweight but I love having green eyes because it’s a very unique and desirable eye colour to have. My green eyes are the only feature that I’m not insecure about because it’s the only thing about myself that I can’t do anything about unless I wanted to wear contact lenses that change your eye colour which is an idea that still confuses me because it’s very creepy and unnerving to have any other eye colour but green, brown or blue.

I mean who would want to have scarlet red eyes like Voldemort just because they can?




My response to the Daily Prompt Ghost


I’ve grown up believing in ghosts and spirits. I don’t believe in Halloween ghouls, ghosts and goblins because it seems very childish and immature; like believing in the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus. I stopped believing in them when I was six and my older brother broke my heart when he told me that the Tooth Fairy and Santa aren’t real. (The old Peter Pan thing of saying I don’t believe in fairies kills fairies was all that really mattered at the time.)

As a child I bought several books full of ghost stories and I couldn’t get enough of them. I watched the Ghost Whisperer with my Mum and it only made me believe in ghosts and spirits even more. One of my favourite programmes was Ghost Hunting With; essentially a woman called Yvette Fielding takes groups of celebrities to haunted places and searches for ghosts. It’s a programme that I can never watch in bed because it leaves me spooked by any kind of noise I hear during the night when everyone else is asleep.

The house I call home hasn’t made it any easier for me not to believe in ghosts, because my home is haunted by spirits of the women who worked as housemaids in the Victorian times. Having friends come round when they know that your house is haunted is a very difficult thing to achieve. From the day I started high school none of my friends were willing to stay the night in a haunted house.

As an atheist I don’t believe there’s a heaven or hell or anything like that, but I do believe that our loved one’s spirits are still with us. I believe that my Mum and Nan’s spirits haven’t left my side and are still taking care of me when I need the most whether I know it or not. I don’t want to visit my Mum’s grave because remembering her spirit and knowing that she’s with me wherever I go makes it easier to deal with the grief. Sounds silly, but who doesn’t want their Mum to be their guardian angel?




My response to the Daily Prompt Carry


Carry is a simple word that has a literal meaning and a figurative meaning. In the literal sense it means to lift something or someone up and move it to somewhere else. In the figurative sense it means supporting someone through a tough time in their lives. For example when a loved one dies some people’s emotional reaction is feeling that they have to carry the entire family through the pain of grief. They feel like they have to be the strong one for their family. keep-calm-and-carry-on

I’ve been that person. When my Nan passed away eight months after my Mum I felt like I had to be the strong one for two reasons. Firstly, I’m the only woman left in our small family. I’m outnumbered by two men and while I hate being in that position now; back then I didn’t mind it all that much. I wanted my Granddad to know that he didn’t need to worry about how I was dealing with the grief of loosing two motherly figures in my life.

Secondly, I felt like it was my fault because we weren’t in the safety of our own environment when it happened. We were on holiday in a caravan park at the time. It had been my idea to go away for my Mum’s birthday, and because of that I felt like her death which happened because of a diabetic seizure was a reaction to me asking if we could go on a family holiday for the first time since I was nine.

I know that it wasn’t my fault now but while I was stumbling blindly through the black cloud of depression it was all I knew. I couldn’t pull myself out of the negative thoughts of how everyone else was blaming me for her death. I self harmed because f how much blamed myself for causing my Granddad so much pain in such a small space of time. I hated myself for hurting my only fatherly figure that much.

It was easier for me to accept what the voices in my head were telling me than try to figure out why I felt this way about what had happened.




My response to the Daily Prompt Confused


I grew up as a tomboy. (Not the tree climbing kind of tomboy, more the kind of tomboythe-more-i-think-the-more-confused-i-get-quote-1 who point blank refused to wear any kind of girly clothes. There were never any bows in my hair or flowers on my clothes.) My Mum once told me that as a toddler I would wet myself if she tried to force me to wear a dress or skirt of any kind. Being a tomboy is so ingrained in my DNA that even after I’ve lost all of the weight I want to loose I won’t be in any hurry to start wearing dresses, skirts, and frilly things that look ridiculous.

I’m quite happy being a tomboy and everyone else around me don’t really pay attention to what I’m wearing on a daily basis because there isn’t really that much of a noticeable difference between men’s and women’s clothes. I have a pixie hair cut and no one bats an eyelid over it. Most of the comments I get about my hair are how I shouldn’t grow my hair long because it wouldn’t suit me at all anymore.

The only person who has anything negative to say about me being a tomboy and wearing men’s clothes is unfortunately the one person who shouldn’t be judging me for what I wear is my brother. He’s of the opinion that I’m magically going to turn into a lesbian because I wear men’s clothes and have pixie hair.

Wearing men’s clothes has nothing to with what my sexuality might be; because I’m still figuring that out. But it has everything to do with what makes me feel comfortable and confident. I don’t know where this opinion comes from and all it does is confuse me; because what if I am a lesbian and he’s being homophobic? He’s only mentioned it to me a few times, every time I laugh it off but it doesn’t mean that the comments don’t hurt me.

The way he views the world confuses me to no end. He sees the world in black and white, there’s no grey in the middle in his world. Men should wear men’s clothes and women should wear women’s clothes; there shouldn’t be any mixing between the two. Anything in the middle of his black and white views is going to confuse him because it doesn’t make sense to him.




My response the Daily Prompt Complicated


Complicated, an adjective with the definition of something involving many different and confusing aspects. Everything about the modern world is complicated, relationships, family life, work, and holidays. There is nothing straightforward about going anywhere anymore; where would the fun be in a straightforward world? Complicated is what we English people do best.

My family dynamic couldn’t be more complicated. My relationship with my brother is complicated and civil at best. My relationship with my biological father is straightforwardly complicated. My relationship with my Granddad is confusing to the outside world. My relationship with my Mum’s sister is complicated. My life is complicated and most of the time I wish it could be so much simpler.

My relationship with my biological father is complicated because I’ve never spent more than an hour in the same room as him. The first fourteen years of my life were spent with hearing a small number of stories about how he was a drug addict and didn’t treat my Mum the way she deserved to be treated. He remained being rarely mentioned and that was the way my Granddad liked it.

I didn’t consider meeting him or think about him until after my Mum passed away and he sent my brother and I a card which didn’t do anything to keep our already disrupted household stable in the slightest. My Granddad wanted to burn it before either of us had a chance to read it, whereas my Nan, who had a much less judgemental attitude towards my biological father, wanted us to meet him.

I wanted the first time I met my father to be something that every other girl in my school year had with their Dad’s. I wanted to be a Daddy’s girl. I wanted a fairytale reunion. I wanted to believe that he wasn’t the person my Grandparents portrayed him as. I was wrong; it was never ever going to be like that.

A few days later we met my biological father and his mother, who has lived in the same village as my primary school for as long as I’ve been alive, at Pizza Hut. I won’t lie or beat around the bush about how the meeting went because it was a complete waste of time. Neither my father or his mother acknowledged anything I told them about myself, their attention was focused on my brother and explaining everything from their perspective. Afterwards my biological father gave me a hug and we went our separate ways and I haven’t seen or heard from him since.

I recently found out from my Mum’s sister, who wants me to see him again and build a relationship with a former drug addict, that my father’s family don’t think that I am biologically related to him. The other side of my family know that my brother is his son, but apparently I might not be his daughter. But the only person who can tell me the truth isn’t here anymore. I wouldn’t blame my Mum in the slightest little bit if I wasn’t his; honestly, it would be a blessing.

My Mum’s sister and I don’t get a long at all; she’s very domineering and thinks that her opinion is the only one that matters in every single conceivable situation. I don’t like her at all. When we do talk over the phone she always brings the conversation round to the topic of my biological father, normally the conversation is about how I’m missing out on knowing my biological father’s sisters, and how difficult it would’ve been for him to come back into our lives after my Granddad told the drug addict that he needed to leave.

She keeps telling me that I’m dishonouring my Mum’s memory by not having a relationship with the man who hurt her, didn’t make her happy and made her feel afraid being in her parent’s home. Why would I want to have a relationship with my father or his family if I know how much I would be hurting my Mum in doing so? Surely, she’s the one dishonouring my Mum and her sister’s memory by talking to me about it?

I don’t need my biological father in my life when I know that I have an amazing man like my Granddad in my life. He’s the man who has raised me. He’s the man who has comforted me when I’ve cried. He’s the man who has loved me unconditionally as his daughter from the day I was born. He’s the man who I will always buy father’s day cards for.