Life is shit; really, really shit. If Blackadder wrote this blog, life would be as shit as a very shit thing, with a special reason to be shit. If the whole anorexia schtick wasn’t enough, there is the teenage hormonal gobshite. How are you supposed to know who you are? Life is so confusing, some of your world sees you as this emerging young woman, some as a pesky kid. And all the time, you feel a foreign creature in your own body.
I know how out of sorts you felt today. We are hard to be around. When in town, I am Mrs Bennett, calling after you on Topshop, saying how nice this skirt would look, brandishing a black plastic coat hanger.
And I know how pissed off you felt. We all got arsey with you because you walked off. We were worried you see. I was especially cross. And you probably thought:”Really. Cross with me, because one day I go t the bookshop whereas my sister has a real mental illness which means you have to hover over her every minute. Over every minute, so that me and my whole schmucky normal life doesn’t get in the way. A world where the contents of my sisters stomach will always be more fascinating than the contents of my mind. Who wouldn’t be pissed off at that?
The thing is, you are my rock. In all of this you are constant. You are sometimes worried, sometimes irritated, sometimes unaffected. You are honest about you feel. You are you. The best you could ever be. The beat tea maker. The best you.
All my love, always