My first entry

A for Average:

This is the beginning of my book.

chapter 1:

We lived in such a beautiful house. I was only 5 when I parents got divorced and we had to move out but I still remember that house, more in feelings that memories. The first images that come to mind are the trees. It had this massive Jacaranda tree in the front garden that to me was something out of one of my fairytales, older than I could comprehend. It scared me at home, filling the grass with tentacled shadows in the moonlight but in the daytime is was alive with life. My favourite time was summer when it covered the front lawn in purple flowers - a lilac carpet but mostly covered with angry bees.  Then there was also an apricot tree, smaller and its base hunched awkwardly in a T-shape, I could climb with ease. That was my tree. It had this deep tree hollow that I always hoped squirrels would find  I wished one day I would find them there. I don't remember my parents fighting, but then I don't have a single memory of any affection between then either. The time in that house was filled instead with my fairy gardens, I used to sit for hours and make twigs into huts, flower beds and walkways of moss. 

My dad is a tall man, with a soft chalky face and icy blue eyes. He burnt red in the summer and had his arms were like an maze of freckles. My favourite memory is when he let me hold onto his shoulders as he swam breast-stroke across the pool, like a giant turtle I he moved cut so perfectly through the water. He said "yog-ghurt" with a fading British accent and had this deep rolling chuckle that I loved hearing. One good days he was charming but most days he stared uncomfortably long at woman walking by and he complained of the cost of almost everything with this deep defeated sign. The older I grew, the more I saw an aging bitter man in front of me and with some effort I tried to hang onto the memory of the magical turtle man. 

My mother was an elegant creature, like a fashion model. She let me dress up in her red leather stilletos and put lipstick on me. She read me stories in bed and I remember the one was called "People who hug trees" 

Today I finally did somethings I was meaning to do for a while. First, I went for a hike and now I'm writing this blog. Overall, it was a successful day. 

The whole purpose of this blog is nothing, I am not trying to accomplish anything and that's what might be therapeutic about it. My whole life feels like an attempt to please someone, whether it's my dog for a walk, my boyfriend, my mother, my family, my colleagues and even myself. I try so hard to find please and it's exhausting but it's the only way I know - as far back as my formal school career - the aim of this life has been just that - earning my place. Earning praise, affection and most of all a place amongst others. The last few weeks have been different - probably due to major depression, but I want know why I started feeling like this in the first place. Why whatever I placed in my life to make me happy seems to bring me the most frustration and despair. Okay, despair is a strong word to use but this is my blog so I can say what-I-wanna. 

To be honest, I enjoy this this loathing period, where I loathe my useless self and my job, I resent my energetic sweet-faced dogs, I find my mother childishly intolerable. All of these things and here I am - pushed to write this blog whilst listening to Natalie Cole's jazz albums. The double base striking something deep in me, it's so liberating to say and I feel like a rebel. In this space I don't let anyone in, just me and all my thoughts however lonesome they feel so peaceful and creative. I am shamelessly eating chips (an extra large bag to myself - yes) and drinking wine. Whenever I feel guilty I snap into the I-don't-care and fuck-it attitude that feels so different from my everyday puppydog self. So this is what's it's come down to, my creative depressed self is kind of cool. I see everything differently and with priorities change, higher up on the list than ever is yoga, moping and self reflection.