Home truths
Last night, as I left the office, I realised I had left my notebook behind, just as the steel security gate clanged shut behind me. I don’t have any access passes to the building, so I couldn’t go back in to get it. At that moment of realisation, I suddenly had a flash of panic. I knew I wasn’t going to be in the office today, and I felt unreasonably vulnerable that it would be sitting there, on my desk, for anyone to read.

There are no great state secrets in that notebook. It is mainly full of jottings that occasionally end up in here, and sometimes just are written down as a way of getting the thoughts out of my head. It’s a combination of a diary, a history, a dream journal, story ideas, funny words I hear in the day, silly ideas that buzz around in my head… nothing that would be of interest or make a great deal of sense to anyone else. Even moreso as I write it from the back… I have no idea how that started, but it seems to make sense to me, and so I continue writing that way. The notebook has been rained on, scuffed about, and is held together by a big bulldog clip to stop it getting torn up in the nuclear explosion that is my shoulder bag.

Being without it for a day has made me feel vulnerable. Even though I logically tell myself that it is just a notebook and that it is meaningless to anyone else… it still feels like I’m walking around naked, and it will just take one person to point at me and shout… and suddenly everyone will realise the truth about me.

I took the day off work today. I got my hair cut (oh the blessed relief) and spent the afternoon with my mother, primarily window shopping. I’ve mentioned before that my mother and I don’t have an affectionate relationship in the normal sense, as others might expect of a mother and daughter. We don’t touch. We don’t talk about sensitive issues really. We know we are there for each other if we need anything, but we don’t really talk about our ‘feelings’. We’re much more likely to discuss sports than whether we are happy.

For the most part it was a good afternoon… we looked through shop after shop, and I bought myself a Chinese good fortune statue and a little container for incense sticks. My feet began to ache (stupid feet) so we had some lunch and continued on, this time looking at clothes. My mother has always been intensely interested in fashion and clothing and make up and appearance. She is incredibly fit and her appearance belies her age. These things are important to her in a way they will never be to me. Even when I had a good figure and could wear whatever I wanted, I still only had a mild interest in it all. As long as I was neat and looked good, I was happy.

Now… well, now I walk into those shops knowing that there isn’t going to be a single thing in there that I will be able to fit into. Spending the afternoon walking into shop after shop, murmuring sounds of approval as my mother held up outfit after outfit… my feet ached and I began to feel rather down about the reality of what I am these days. I caught glimpses of my reflection in the windows and wondered at how disappointed my mother must be with how I have turned out.

Most times I can ignore my weight… it doesn’t stop me working or driving or walking or swimming or doing the things that I want to do, usually. It doesn’t stop me having fun with my friends, or reading or writing or thinking or getting out on a horse or a bike…

But if I am honest with myself. Brutally honest. Then it does matter. Even though I want to say it shouldn’t. That it doesn’t change who I am. That people should accept me regardless.

But that’s the thing. They do. It’s me who doesn’t. I use it as an excuse to myself, as to why I will never be good enough for someone, why noone will be interested in me, why I should just accept a life on my own. Because at least this way, if I can blame it on them rejecting my weight, then they won’t be rejecting me. And I really know how pathetic and stupid and self-pitying this all sounds. How if I am unhappy I should just bite the bullet and do something about it. How it is all in my control to change my life around. I know that all logically, but this isn’t about logic. It’s about fear.

Because that’s what I’m truly afraid of. What I have always been afraid of. They will find out the truth.

That I, me, the person inside, am simply not worth the effort.