This is the story of the scars on my arms.

This is the story of the scars on my arms. It’s not a pleasant one, but it’s one that happened a long time ago, that I feel like sharing. Not because I should, but because I want to. Also, I haven’t blogged in a long time, and since nothing interesting is happening currently, I shall delve into my past, just for you. I’m going to be bringing up things from years ago, from my childhood and adolescence. This is not for you to feel sympathy, or judge me. I’m not sure why I’m writing this. I just am. Also, I am not blaming anyone for what happened; not my family, friends, no one.
I was born into a well off family. My sister was 2 years and 10 months old at the time. I was born a second child, and remained that way until Ella was born, when I was 12. I’m pretty clever; I got a good education and went to good schools. My parents are still together, married, and I come from a nice area. My life has never been particularly hard.
Regardless, being a second child I constantly felt inferior to my older sibling. Growing up, I was kinda an angry kid. Apparently, I used to hit other children when I was in my pushchair! I would throw tantrums, I would scream and cry and I would lash out at my sister with serious intent to hurt her when we argued. Traits of a second child are hyperactivity, acting like they’re always in a race and, indeed, feeling inferior to the older sibling. I had all of these.
Up to the age of around 11, when I started karate, I had the worst anger management problems! I had no idea how to control my anger. I would bottle things up, and then take it all out on my family. I didn’t really get it fully under control until the age of about 15 though. I’m assuming I got this from my father. As a child, I remember him losing his temper really badly. It wasn’t constantly, but when it happened, it was bad. One time, he smashed all my sisters’ ornaments because she was naughty, or something. I got fed up of taking stuff out on my family at about 12, so I started self harming. The cuts were really small and pathetic, but I felt the need to do it. It only happened for a few months, and then I stopped. I am unable to recall why, or what I did instead. I think I started a diary during this period but then felt ridiculous reading it back, and even writing it, so I stopped.
Back to my sister; I really did feel like she was better than me. She’s stunning, femme, and popular, and I felt like I could never match up to her. I’ve always been a tomboy. In fact, I refused to wear dresses from the age of six! I constantly felt like she was more liked than me, not only by people in general, but also by my parents, and by boys. Now, you must understand that I actually thought I was into boys then. I came out as bisexual at 12 and a lesbian at 15, so I genuinely thought I liked boys up until I was 15. I didn’t have a ‘proper’ boyfriend up until I was 12 and that lasted for nine days! I was then single until I was nearly 15, which seemed ages! My sister was definitely in the popular group at school. She had, and has, amazing fashion sense, makeup and hair, so understandably, she was popular! Especially, in the all girls grammar school we attended. I, on the other hand, didn’t understand fashion one bit. If I looked good, that’s because my sister chose what I wore. I had shoulder length hair which was in the same style constantly, unless my sister did it, and as for makeup, well, that was just mascara and eyeliner occasionally. I tried to look femme to live up to societies and my mothers standards. This, understandably, left me feeling low, as I knew I could never be what I felt like my mother wanted me to be, and left me feeling even more inferior to my sister.
Then at 15, I got my first girlfriend. We were together for almost two months, I believe. Basically, before we got together, we were friends, and then after I found out she was bisexual and single, I felt immediately attracted to her. We fell in ‘love’ and I wanted everything to be perfect. I constantly felt like I wasn’t good enough for her, which was only emphasised by my already low self esteem. All I knew of love was in the movies; I was the man, she was the woman. I was the protector, and I felt like I failed at my job. Also, she made me feel inadequate, unworthy and generally like shit. I don’t remember how, it was probably her not paying me enough attention all the time, and how everything wasn't perfect, but I remember she did. That was when I started to cut myself again. I remember showing her, and feeling really guilty, but she was very supportive. She said I was stupid, but she didn’t make me feel bad. A few weeks later, she broke up with me. It hurt me. We got back together probably within the week, but it still hurt. She then broke up with me again, about a month later. A few days after, I went to a beach party to celebrate my friends’ boyfriends’ birthday. There, I met a guy. I texted my ex to let her know that he said he wanted to kiss me, and how I found it hilarious, but reassured her nothing would happen. She said it was fine if anything did because we weren’t together. I told her I wanted her back. She said we would discuss it the next day. I then ended up drinking and talking to this guy. We both spoke about our exes, he told me about his music career, and then we ended up kissing. At this point, I was very drunk, and decided it would be a good idea to go back to his house. He ended up taking my virginity in front of a beach hut. Classy, right? I knew it was happening, but I felt nothing. I felt empty. I remember just staring up at the stars in the sky. We then went back to his house, and I slept straight away. In the morning, he took me back to my house, and I then knew I had to speak to her. We met up, and I told her what happened. She said she never wanted to talk to me again. I tried to explain, but she ignored me. I went back to my house, got drunk, and held a knife above my arm and slashed down, creating three big gashes on my forearm. They started bleeding, a lot, and I got scared, so I text her telling her what had happened, and her and her friend helped to patch me up. She then hugged me and I felt like it was all better. Unfortunately, we didn’t get back together, and I continued to self harm.
School on the Monday was the worst thing. I remember everyone knew about what had happened with the guy, so they were asking me questions, and I had to pretend to be happy, when really, inside, I was embarrassed, ashamed and hurting. All of her friends knew, and they hated me.
I knew I had to do something about my self harm, so I booked a doctors appointment. My doctor was possibly the loveliest person in the world, and we totally had a conversation about skiing one time! I saw my doctor once a week and we discussed what was happening. I didn’t tell her why I cut myself, because I was ashamed of sleeping with that guy and nervous about telling her that I’d had a girlfriend, so I stupidly left her in the dark and told her I didn’t know why I did it. Then, one day, I was called into the Head of Years office. Apparently, my ex found it appropriate to tell her exactly what had happened. Not only did I despise that woman, but I also hated how my ex had got the school involved in my business. I was forced to see the schools councillor once a week, regardless of the fact that I was also seeing my doctor. I also developed an extreme dislike for this woman too. Not only was she old, with a weird nose, but her name sounded suspiciously like ‘urine’. Mrs Uren made me do stupid colouring exercises, and questionnaires. I didn’t let her into anything because I didn’t want to be there. I knew I had a problem, but being forced into seeing the school councillor was not my idea of a jolly time.
I was still moping over losing my ex, and we got to the point where we were friends, but she knew I longed for her back. Then, I had a revelation. I didn’t need her. I was never in love with her. In fact, she was a total bitch. She then told me she wanted me back. I said no. Then, after an argument, we stopped talking completely. As soon as we stopped talking, I didn’t feel the need to harm myself anymore. I stopped seeing the school councillor. I stopped seeing my doctor. I just… Stopped! The only problem was I had these enormous gashes up my arm, which I was exceedingly self conscious about. Throughout the last few months of school, I kept them covered up and didn’t let anyone else know about them; although, I’m sure they had their suspicions. I was still getting abuse from her friends, but I didn’t care. It didn’t affect me. I was in my own utopia and no one could pull me out of there.
That summer was amazing. At the risk of sounding super lame, I felt I really discovered myself. I got my hair cut short, started wearing guys clothes, and my best friends mum said that I looked more like ‘Tash’, and I felt a lot more like me too! I then came out as a lesbian, got a job, well, two actually, and then started college, where I gained a whole new group of amazing friends. My scars had healed, but were still visible, but I felt a lot more confident about them, and about myself, so I didn’t hide them, and anyone who asked, I told them the story I am telling you now.
I do not condone self harm, in fact, especially going through it, I think it’s a pointless and stupid way of expressing your emotions, but for me, going through that lead me to a much richer way of life. I’m now stupidly confident with myself. I love everything in my life, I rarely get angry or upset, and I know how to deal with bad things when they go on. I have amazing, amazing friends, my education is going well and I’ve completely stopped self harming.
Also, I do not hate my ex, in fact, in a way, I am grateful for what has happened, because I feel like I am a better person now, and I think that shows. I would also like to thank anyone who helped my through it because I can imagine I wasn’t a joy to be around when I was depressed, and to the people I’ve told, thank you for being mature and understanding about it. And that’s my story.

I can't think of a good name, but it's only an update.

Before you say it, I am well aware that I haven’t blogged in ages! And I must admit that this is barely enough to suffice the lack of writing, but I am under the impression I owe it to you guys. So, here is your update.
I have recently joined a gym! By recently, I mean two days ago, and I love it so far! Yes, I have only been for two days, but it’s been great! And I’m planning on going again today! It’s actually a really nice gym, and after my workout (usually with David) I go swimming and into the sauna and Jacuzzi! It’s great! Some of the machines have TV’s in them, so I can watch The Simpsons or Friends whilst working out. There’s loads of different equipment, and there are some fine girls there! The only traumatising part is the changing… There are women getting naked around me, which, doesn’t sound that bad, until I realise they’re about 40 and saggy and hairy and I have no idea where to look!!
I’ve also just spent about an hour on my hair (by an hour, I mean about 20 minutes) because it’s my Grandma’s birthday today, and she’s coming round, with several of her friends, and although she won’t care what I look like because she loves me regardless, the camera, however, would not be so sympathetic!
Work is changing. For some stupid reason, they’ve let the fat, ginger Northern Mormon who works in the week work on Saturdays (not Sundays as well, thank God, someone has church!) which means all the civic temps (as in, my job) have to take a Saturday off work a month, regardless if they want that holiday or not. I’m sorry, but how fucking ridiculous is that?! Okay, it’s £30 a month, but that’s my gym membership, that’s money I need to pay off my debts from fixing my bike, that’s money I need to save up to go to uni, all fucking gone because some fat bitch decided it’d be fun to screw around with my life and take my fucking shifts! My supervisor (the one I really like and get along with) tried to justify it by saying that we all usually take a day off once a month anyway. I don’t! I hardly ever take holiday! So, I looked at her and said ‘This is shit.’ And she totally agreed with me.
Back to the fatty. Okay, there really isn’t that many people in my life that I do not like straight away, I think there has been one other, and she is one of them. I’m not sure what it is about her that I cannot stand, but there’s something! I spent 20 minutes totally slagging her off to my supervisor, and she was just laughing away, agreeing with me. No one else likes her. I’m not sure what it is, but she really makes me want to… Stab her in the face, or something! I know it sounds like I’m overreacting, and I probably am, but I just can’t stand her!
I’ve also started a Facebook fan page, and if you’re not already a fan, you can become one here: http://www.facebook.com/pages/Dykadellic/253069378033?v=wall&ref=ts and you can also get me on Twitter http://twitter.com/Dykadellic.
And that is my disjointed, unimpressive update!

#8 The last day.

This is the beginning of the end. Today is the day we depart this sacred land, off to our homes where work and college, instead of skiing and drinking, are our everyday activities. Joy.

We have to be out of our rooms at 10, but we’re permitted to stay in the chalet until 1:30, when our transfer bus comes. That means I’m ‘busy’ packing. Refilling my suitcase has reaffirmed my beliefs that I am potentially the worse packer ever! Half the stuff I’m packing hasn’t been worn or used. Maybe that’s why my suitcase was over the limit…

The actual coach ride itself was upsetting, yet interesting. We passed snow covered, vertical drop cliff edges, rickety old shacks that looked like they should be on A Series of Unfortunate Events and more graffiti than the amount I doodle in boring lessons.

Then, we arrived at the airport, boarded the plane, I was (again!) not given a vegetarian meal, and we then landed, after a flight of Ella stealing my phone and taking hundreds of pictures of her, her various body parts and the general inside of the aircraft. I phoned my friends and it was amazing hearing their voices again as I interrogated them as to why they didn’t text me like I had specifically requested. We then got home and I spent hours on my laptop attempting to catch up on Facebook, Twitter, YouTube and other things that had happened whilst I was away.

This week has been really good. I utterly love skiing holidays. I didn’t get to go snowboarding, the skiing itself wasn’t great because of the weather and we certainly didn’t go out as much as I would have liked, but I’ve still had an amazing week. Now, it’s the countdown until next season…

#7 A mundane day with the most excitement being a hangover.

After waking up with a rather large headache, I took Ella skiing again. She wasn’t nearly as good as yesterday. She was complaining about her legs hurting and how she ‘couldn’t do it’. But I was very proud of her being able to master the button lift (with help from me). I got her on the lift, with me, put the button through her legs, and made her hold on. Then, at the top, I had to take it out and push her down the slope slightly.

Mother and I went skiing after dropping Ella at nursery. We gave up after two runs as the visibility was again so, so poor. This week hasn’t been a good week in terms of skiing.

I picked Ella up from nursery, and as it was snowing so much, the 3 minute walk from nursery to the chalet ended with us looking like snowmen!

We had dinner, chatted, drank, watched Bourne Ultimatum (which, I have to say, I really wasn’t interested in, so I went to bed half way through) then slept.

Today has been rather mundane. Well, for a skiing holiday.

Wipeout Count: 0

#6 New Years Eve.

Woke up. Had breakfast. Got dressed. Skied. Went on a gondola that made me feel like I was in Star Wars. Skied. Came back to the chalet. Got Ella, Mum and Dad. Went to get Ella skis. Took Ella to a green run…

Ella was amazing at skiing! I taught her how to snowplough, how to stop, how to turn and we used the button lift. By the end of the 30 minute session I had with her, she was able to ski by herself! I am so, so proud of her, and amazed at how good she was.

The day today is New Years Eve; so, we’re going to be eating dinner and (hopefully) going out. I am planning on getting very, very drunk

At dinner, I had a few drinks, and as we left for the New Years Eve celebrations, I was already pretty drunk. We then went to a pirate themed bar, where they had a normal bar one side of the room, and a separate bar where the bartenders had full pirate outfits on and served only rum of all different colours and flavours; it was awesome. I then had a pint, 2 shots of Sambuka (ew), several shots of rum (I can remember having banana and strawberry) and whatever else people were giving me.

We headed over to where the celebrations were being held, which was set out like a concert. They had a stage with lots of very bright lights, and a DJ booth for NRJ to lay some heavy tracks down. Being my very drunken self, I decided it would be a good idea to get right to the front of the crowd, so, using my elbows, hands and brute force, I wrestled my way right to the front centre and started jumping up and down and waving my arms like a crazy person. I’m not even sure if I was in time with the beat. The celebrations were being filmed and I remember making ridiculous faces at the camera which I thought were appropriate. The DJ also looked down at me and started bouncing his hands up and down, just as I was. The group of people I was with then informed me that they were going and asked if I wanted to go. I declined their offer and claimed I knew my way back, even though I didn’t. After a while, I felt bored and tired, so decided I should probably make my way back – one problem; I didn’t have a clue where I was going. I got out and made my way over to two people. I asked them if they knew where the hotel ‘Le Petit Prince’ is, as it’s the nearest landmark to our chalet, and I had no clue what our chalet was called. They said they didn’t but, in turn, asked me a question; ‘You smoke cannabis?’ – They were basically asking me if I had weed on me. I then went to ask another group of people ‘Excuse moi. Parle-vous Anglais?’ ‘Non.’ ‘Ah, er, ou est l’hôtel Le Petit Prince?’ Apparently, my French is a lot better the more I drink. I then got told to go down a road, which I did, when I encountered the shop area of the town. I found the French police, thus, thought it would be a good idea to ask them. Using the only bit of French I knew, I asked whether they knew how to get back. They did, and told me to just keep walking down the road, which I did, and slowly started to recognise where I was. Then a Polish man asked me whether I spoke French, I said no, he found that good because he didn’t either. He asked me, in slightly broken English, whether I knew where some hotel was. Now, I have a hard enough time understanding English people when I’m drunk. It’s even harder trying to decipher foreign people. And even worse when I don’t have a clue where he was trying to say. So, I might have claimed I knew and slightly sent him down the road away from me, purely because I couldn’t be bothered to attempt to understand where he meant. I got back to the chalet, went to the fridge, opened a carton of orange juice and drank from the bottle. About 30 seconds later, I heard people downstairs; it was the people who abandoned me. I let them know of my adventures, then went to bed, crashed out, and woke up with a rather sore head. All in all, my New Years Eve was bloody amazing.

Wipeout Count: 0