Written With Hearts

Written With Hearts - Chapter Ten

Abby....

Hey, gorgeous, make sure you don't do anything that I wouldn't do! Ah, fuck that! Do exactly what I'd do! :)

Seriously, hun. Have a good time. You deserve it my beautiful friend. Just remember, if Yate wants you and your vagina, pleeeeeeease let him have it . . . I'm worried that hole of yours has dried up! :):):)

I love you, KC xxxxxx

I chuckle at the text message sent to me from KC, as I prepare for my weekend to Birmingham with Yate. I swear that girl was born bloody randy. She may have been crude with her teasing, but I know that there's very real sentiment woven within that silly text of hers. She worries about me. She wants me to be spontaneous and have a good time. Her reason? Because she's seen me at the lowest point in my life, and she's watched my painful recovery from that. Everything that I've been through, KC was there. She has watched me emerge from the fog that hovered over me after dad died. As my best friend, she has seen me at my best and at my absolute worst. At my worst, I hated myself. I couldn't stand being the person that I was, and I couldn't understand why anyone would want me in their life because of the person that I'd become. My confusion and pain caused others pain, mainly, KC and my mum.

The relationship with my mother has unfortunately always been strained, and just after dad died; it nearly collapsed altogether. I blamed her for something that I recklessly had done. It was far easier to blame her than to blame myself. It was only when I began piecing my life back together, that I was finally able to admit to that. Things will never be the same between my mum and me, but our relationship is slowly being rebuilt. I can actually be in a room with her without wanting to run, and I can now hold a civilised conversation with her. We have what you'd call an unconventional relationship, one that has had to work around her unpredictability and sporadic binge drinking. Which is why I still prefer to keep her at arm's length. If she's not allowed too close, she can't ever hurt me. I'm not saying she was ever aggressive towards me; she just neglected to feel anything towards me. Mum just wasn't, and isn't, maternal.

She has always found it difficult to express what she feels. Being her daughter, her feelings certainly were no different. She was always trying to be my best friend and not my mother. Most of the affection ever shown to me, was given to me by my beloved grandparents. They were the ones that showered me with their genuine love, and the ones who I truly felt secure with. When they both died within the same awful year, I was eighteen and all at once, I'd lost that loving security. It was just my mum and me, and what I didn't get from her; I found in my closest of friendships. At rare and contemplative times, I have often wondered whether mum blames me for my father not choosing her over his boring wife. Did that bitter resentment prevent her from bonding with me? I guess I'll never know; it's not something that I ever intend to discuss with her, because that would mean carrying me back to the past, and that is somewhere I never like to go.

Glancing over at the clock, I decide to take one final look at myself before Yate arrives. My pretty bedroom has the same feel as my living room, a shabby chic haven. My long, ornate, oval-shaped mirror beautifully stands in the corner of the quaint and charming room. Stood before it, a satisfied smile soon reaches my lips. The long maxi dress I am wearing is comfortably boho on this fine, warm day. The bold blue shapes are arranged into striking patterns; looking impressive against the mixed cotton fabric. I've tied my hair up into a messy looking topknot, and my funky wedges and large hoop earrings bring the whole outfit trendily together. I tilt my head with that satisfied smile still firmly in place.

You see, once upon a time; I couldn't even bear to look at myself. All I would see staring back at me was an inexcusable monster: one that I despised with every living breath that I had. Do you know what it actually feels like to hate yourself that much? To feel a hatred so strong, your skin doesn't feel like it's your own anymore? Unfortunately, I know all too well, how that feels. My story isn't really a long one. It's just an unforgivable one. After dad died, I felt so suffocated by so many different emotions: hurt, loss, unworthiness, disappointment and anger. That one night, I went out to forget every single fucking one of them. My only objective was to go out and drink every one of those emotions into a temporary oblivion. I stupidly went alone, with absolutely no idea where I was going. I found solace in some bar on the edge of town, with just vodka for company. It was whilst getting therapeutically wasted, that this guy joined me. I remember liking him because he made me laugh, and it had been a while since I'd had one of them. The more wasted I got; the more I liked him. He did tell me his name, but I honestly have never been able to remember it since that hazy night.