I fake it so real I am beyond fake

I’ve been doing a lot of thinking recently (when do I ever not!?) and reminiscing about the old days. Maybe because I’m approaching 31 or 30 Take 2, as I am making people refer to it or maybe because its nearly been a year of being single.

I posted a load of old photos on my Instagram page the other day and avoided posting others, like the one where I was 12/13  and looked skeletal where I had lost a load of weight and still thought I was massive and wondering what I could do to make the girls at school to like me.

Most of them made me laugh – the confirmation that I had always had a bitchy resting face or the trip to a farm which looked more like a dump. Others made me sad and realise how much of myself I lost and gave up over the years. I looked at that girl and thought I miss you and I want you back. I wanted to go back to being 15/16 when I think I was actually the happiest I had ever been (and most probably ever will be). I want to be that slim again, I want to do the things I used to do and I want to not give a fuck about what anyone else thinks.

I’m starting slowly to be me again. I’m throwing out clothes that hide my body and opting for clothes that are more tight fitting. I wear stupid flowers and unicorns in my hair and give not one fuck if I look like a child raiding their dressing up box. I’m learning to stop apologising for everything and anything. I’ve starting making things again. I spend my Sunday in bed eating chocolate based goods. I’m trying to wear more colour. I’m trying to be less fixated on possessions and learning to possess myself.

One of the photos I posted was of  my new mustard tights and my whore/school shoes. A friend asked me if it was a fake leg and was not surprised when I told her it was from one of the bodies I keep in my wardrobe. Joking aside, I do keep a lot of bodies in the wardrobe, all me and all varying stages of me. Hopefully I’ve almost got rid of the shitty versions and the best is yet to come.



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