So this blog is called ‘No Cupcakes and Curtains’ because of a conversation I had with my old therapist a few years ago. I told him I hated small talk. Can’t stand it. I can do it, but I prefer to skip it. I don’t get it. He referred to small talk as ‘Cupcakes and Curtains’. I’m not sure if this is an established saying, or whether he was just putting together random words. I tried to Google it, but there was no urban dictionary meaning for it, so I don’t know. Hence I decided this blog was definitely not about the small talk, so NoCupcakesAndCurtains was born.
I love to write. I have been spinning stories since I was about six years old. I used to think it was since I was 10 years old, but then I found my first ever diary in a box the other day, which was just a hard bound notebook and found the words ‘I am 7 years old. I like writing books.’ So I figure it’s meant to be. Even in that diary I was creating an imaginary family around me, and living in weird and wonderful imaginary houses. They were usually underground or floating in the sky. Never just an ordinary house. I seemed to have a fascination with underground things. Not sure why.
I also had a fascination with secret things. It was my favourite word. I had secrets. Secrets I kept, even from myself until I was 18 years old. Those secrets were the ones that would fuck me up. You know the ones. The ones that strange adults told you were secret from everyone else. And I believed them. Even my brain believed them, and in the end, not knowing what to do with that secret, hid it from my own consciousness. That dissociation kept me slightly saner for those formative years, although I still had a lot of the side effects.
When it all came back to me in my later teen years, my mind broke a little. A little bit more, anyway. I went off the deep end. My brain now wanted to kill me. It told me to walk in front of cars, take pills, walk off high things, etc. I only partially listened to it. Eventually, after wanting to shut it up, I decided downing some sleeping pills with vodka was a good idea. Not so much. A stay in the hospital overnight was the result of that. The funny thing is, I was released the next morning with no more than a “don’t do it again” and a see ya later. No follow up. Interesting.
The next few years were a rinse, repeat of that episode. I’m sure my long suffering family were getting pretty sick of it. I was self-harming on a daily basis, and also a work-aholic. I tried to stay as busy as possible. I didn’t sleep much, so I just used to go to work instead. Eventually, I ended up signing myself into a full-time rehabilitation unit to try and get myself well. I knew I was fucked, and if I carried on the way I was going, I would be dead in a couple of years. So I gave it all I had.
I came out 15 months later a very different person. I now wore colours. I smiled. I took selfies. I dressed girly. Ish. People didn’t recognise me. I was happy. I had found who I was, I had learnt to love myself, despite my quirks. It had been a hard journey, but well-won. I was 22 years old.
This post has been long enough and sobering enough. I’ll let you go. We can pick this up next time.