Dear Reader- Taylor Swift

Part 4

Triple checking, I had everything I did my best not to bite on my thumb, a nervous habit that Mum hates, mainly because I tend to chew the side of it until it bleeds and then complain about it hurting. I tend to be a bit of a whiner baby, but only for her, which she loves for obvious reasons.

I mean, what mother wouldn't love listening to their twenty-something child complain because their finger is bleeding again after I used it as a chew toy for the billionth time? Apparently, mine, who now just scolds me for being stupid and threatening to paint mushed-up broccoli on my thumb to get me to stop the awful habit. Because, let's be honest here, broccoli is gross. 

But even with her complaining, I know deep down she enjoys me running to her every time I hurt myself even a little.

No, she actually does, despite claiming not to.

I think it is because I was so terrified of doing anything that would make her send me away when I was younger. I mean, when I was eleven, I fell out of a tree, and it took her finding out by herself three days later when I winced at the hug she gave me, that I had broken my arm. I hadn't told her because I didn't want her to think I was an inconvenience. It took years of being with Mum to realise she wasn't going to send me away, or worse, back to my creators.

So, the fact that now, seventeen years later, I call her to complain when I step on TJ's Lego at five am just proves what an amazing Mum she has been to me.

She really has been the best Mum I could ever ask for. Much better than the one I was given upon my birth. Honestly, DNA can suck it because of both my egg donor and sperm donor and nothing more than that. They have never and will never be my parents. That job goes to Mum and Mum alone.

Anyway, back to the point. If it were ever appropriate to be nervous, I feel like today would be the day.

Today is a big day, a massive day if I listen to Thumper. Which I do not. But even without listening to his inessive babbling, I know it's a big deal. No matter how much I pretend to play it cool. I am not a cool enough person to play it cool today, and I like to think I'm pretty cool. Rose says I am the coolest person she knows, and that's saying something.

Today is a big deal, and I am bloody bricking it.

Writing is something I do to escape, a way to leave the world around me and enter a whole new one, one that is safe and calm, something I don't get in reality often. It is my own form of therapy since my therapist told me that I was shit at therapy. 

Now, honestly, I think she must have been a shit therapist for saying something like that to her client, but she had a point. I was shit at therapy. But her timing could have been a bit better when she told me that I was failing therapy.

She actually told me at the end of a session, exploring why I think I have low self-esteem. Something I didn't even believe I had until that conversation. When she initially told me, my answer was along the lines of, because the people who created me hated me, and the person I love treats me as if I'm invisible. By the time the session was over, my answer was that my therapist told me I was shit at therapy after making me talk about having low self-esteem.

On the plus side, after that, I learnt that therapy definitely wasn't for me and poured even more of my emotions into writing so that I could stay visibly sane.

Writing is so much easier than having to say shit out loud to someone else's face. I can do it alone in my own time, and then I can pretend it doesn't exist. I don't have to watch as someone reacts to my words. 

In my world, as soon as I've finished something, it no longer exists. What happens after I complete the book doesn't matter to me. I have said what I needed to say, and I can go back to the real world, spending my time being as happy as I can for TJ because he deserves me to be happy with him.