Diary Of A Design Graduates Dreams

It's been a quiet month.  So how is working life treating me?  I certainly wouldn't use the word treat in that sentence as the true description of how I'm being handled.

I got my letter for counselling the week that I started.  All my problems were solved.  What useless timing, I had a job... my depression was over.  I had finally got my first job.  I was learning all sorts of fascinating new things.  I was actually getting paid!!!

And then I realised that I had signed away my soul.  The innocent contract I signed had nothing to do with employment.  I signed my life away for £6 an hour.  Why all the negativity?  I spent a whole year dreaming of having a job, blaming all my misery on not having one.  And now I have one I'm complaining.  I spent a year hating the people who were lucky enough to have jobs but complained about them.

But right now my cheeks are smeared with mascara and I'm sat in my coat with the fire on to get warm.  I'm exhausted.  I'm run down.  I'm just a number.  Two weeks ago I worked a 6 day week... I wasn't best pleased but it was extra money and I wasn't seeing the boyfriend that weekend so I could tolerate it.  After one day off I was then expected to work a 51 hour week [well, a 61 hour week actually but it was a boyfriend weekend so I refused to work the Saturday].  I wasn't happy about it but I thought of the money and saw the light at the end of the tunnel when I could just sleep and rest.  The tunnel was bricked up, the light was just a worker walking down the tunnel with his little torch.  On Thursday I was given this weeks rota... 9am until 9pm Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday!!!  With 9am until 7pm on Saturday and 10am until 6pm on Sunday.  Were they joking?  The 6 day week followed by the 51 hours was because it was a particularly busy period.  Could they really expect the same from me for another week?  As a girl with a timid personality I didn't argue.  But that was before exhaustion got the best of me.  After a weekend of headaches and an inability to regulate my temperature the boyfriend suggested I phone in sick tomorrow.  Never in my education did I take off a day if I wasn't struck down with a plague-like illness.  Surely now isn't the time to start?  After many agonising  tears I decided it isn't.  Because they are free of morals and treat their staff like slaves does that mean I should abandon my own morals and beliefs?  So what is my decision?  Put up with it, think of the money and get through it?  Timid I may be, but a mug I am not.  I will not abandon my morals, I will go in to work [unless exhaustion really does get the better of me and strike me down with the plague in the morning] but I shall be having words and for the first time in my life putting my foot down with people that I see as authority.  I will work.  But I will NOT work 12 hours!  I will work an extra hour.  But I will not give up every hour of my day to a company who treat me as nothing but a number.  If they do insist that I must work the hours that I agreed to last week then I will no longer fight my body.  I will no longer fight my exhaustion.  My body may not be ill but it is far from healthy.  If they cannot see the logical fact that it is better to have me for a few less hours than to not have me there at all then that simply is not my problem.  I will not drive myself in to the ground because they are low on staff for no reason other than already treating staff so badly that they have walked out.

But for now, I must sleep!

After 14 months I can now, once again, tell the difference between a Monday and a Sunday, between a Wednesday and a Saturday without the aid of Home and Away.  I am employed.  I have a wage.  I have a life.  I have friends.  And I finally have an appointment with a counsellor to discuss my depression.  Do I still need to see a counsellor?  According to the mood evaluation sheet... NO.  But I won't complain that I'm feeling more cheerful.  I won't complain that I'm being paid to spend time with other human beings and talk on a phone all day.  And I certainly won't complain that for the first time in my life I am in the cool group.

Am I in my dream job?  Not quite.  But what is my dream job?  I still want to be an interior designer.  But I love insurance.  Could the two be more opposite?  I may only be spending my days chatting on the phone selling insurance but after 8 years of chasing my design dream I feel open, free and excited at the thought of the winding paths towards a career.  After a year of soul destruction, dwindling confidence and low self-esteem I am back on form at top of the class with 100% on all 3 of my assessments.  I have slipped right back in to my role of teachers pet as if I never left... does make me wonder if life-long education would be the path to happiness and enlightenment, but who wants to spend millions and never earn a penny?

Thursday night was the night for me to face my fears of giving blood.  The fears had subsided, I was feeling like the bravest of the brave, I could take on anything.  Then I walked in the room.  Was I donating blood to an emergency room of car crash victims?  I had prepared myself for blood.  I had prepared myself for needles.  I did not prepare myself for the layout of the room.  I was a bit shaky but no-one has ever conquered a fear by running in the opposite direction.  And did I mention I was looking for a few karma points?  So I bravely had my finger pricked, the multi-vitamins with iron did their job and I was sent on to stage two.  It was at this stage when the realisation set in.  First to go was the breathing, I was breathing twice as much as my lungs were asking for.  My heart began pounding hard enough for them to just remove it from my chest and squeeze the blood out quickly and easily.  I had pins and needles.  I was shaking.  Before I knew it I was in the middle of a panic attack and being led to my own little bed hidden by a screen.  Luckily I had the mother with me for support.  Unluckily though I got the nurse with the worst bedside manner I have ever known.  Did he make me feel calm?  No, he made me feel angry.  I wanted to do a good thing.  I honestly didn't see such a reaction on its way.  I felt like I was wasting his time.  He was intensifying my panic attack with his 'calming' words.  I still think I could have done it.  Before he spoke to me all I had was slightly intense breathing, had he taken me to donate I would have looked away and got on with it.  But now I will never know, I now have a fear a lot worse than before.

Its three weeks since I saw the boyfriend.  And he still isn't here now.  He won't be here until next week.  From the intention of spending extra this week with him, to spending none. I am currently living for the weekday; an enjoyable sociable distraction, one that I get paid to enjoy.  As soon as my week begins again though, I can finally live for the weekend again, to get to see the handsome man that I get to call my boyfriend.  But for this weekend I'm going to tuck up with a film, and spend tomorrow following the football scores and swotting up for my final assessment on Tuesday.  The problem with being a star pupil is there is always extra pressure to keep up the standard.  But I won't lie, I love being the knowledgeable swot type.

I sit at my computer a glowing shade of red.  I've just been for a stroll with father, I'm not glowing because I am so unfit I can barely handle a leasurely walk around the block.  I have taken on depression and beaten it... did I ever really have it in the first place?  I'm still doubtful.  Today's cherry red face and excessive tears are thanks to something much more haunting................... hormones!!!  Like werewolves, female kind can take a dramatic shift each month.  Perhaps to compare us to werewolves is more like what a man would say, but as a sufferer I can think of no better term.  From a normal, relatively happy [if you ignore the manic-depressive episodes] girl to someone that I barely recognise.  I can understand why men think it is all just an act, just an excuse to go a little crazy each month.  It is irrational.  It comes from nowhere.  It makes no sense.  If we can't explain it then how can we expect them to understand?  The father tells me its genetic, the mother turned in to an angry lunatic each month.  Luckily I didn't get the anger, the boyfriend doesn't have to watch out for flying frying pans... I got the tears.  I like to blame situational issues too, if I weren't already struggling with the day to day then what would I have to cry about?..... well, I'm sure I could find something.
What has baffled me this month however, is how my body knows?  Everybody does it... everybody skips a period here and there.  I read up on it [in fear that I was killing any chances I have of ever having children] and apparently there is no danger in carrying on through a couple of pill packets.  I fear a slap on the wrist at check-ups but I simply can't resist the opportuinity to fiddle nature from time to time.  And somehow, recently my body has known this.  The hormones come in the final week of taking the pill so my body has no way of knowing that I will be giddily skipping past nature with a smile on my face this month... yet the past few months I have come away [relatively] tear-free.  Perhaps too much detail for the men reading now, but after two skipped months I fear skipping another so nature shall be having it's turn this month.  But my body doesn't yet know this, my body still has a week until it suffers withdrawal from man-made oestrogen.  So how does my body know that this month I am due my dose of PMT?  It knew to skip past that torture recently, how does it know that this is the month.  And why is it hitting me with everything it has?  The lesson perhaps..... don't mess with nature.  Lesson learnt?  I doubt it........

I've had the boyfriend two weekends in a row.  Social engagements in the next two weekends [one weekend being mine for once... finally I have a social life] mean that I got his two weekends in a row before those sad weekends apart.  From waking up to watch Nicky Campbell in bed this morning, to napping on my bed this afternoon like a couple of exhausted pensioners.  I love my weekends with the boyfriend.  Like all couples we have our little disagreements from time to time but recently we have been the happy, fun-loving and very 'intimate' couple.  I have felt totally stress-free and happy.  But then I didn't realise what was coming........ this afternoon out of nowhere, the full moon shone.  The werewolf greeted us unexpectadly.  Why was I crying?  What was wrong with me?  From the tiniest comment, came a giant elephant in the room.  He wanted to know what was wrong, and being a man he was determined to keep asking until he got his answer.  I just wanted to drop it and move on, I knew what was coming if his line of questioning continued.  I left the room, I imagine it looked like I was storming out in a strop but in reality I know how much he hates it when I cry so I was merely trying to calm myself down and prevent the inevitable tears.  Failed.  The moment passed though, he thought I was mental but we went back to happy and after a lovely day we fell asleep on my bed.  Until he had to go.... then I cried some more, something I thought I was past now, I had adapted to no longer crying when he leaves... so once again here I blame the hormones.

Is it always hormones?  Or do we really sometimes use it as an excuse?  Maybe sometimes we just need a good cry, just need to get it out.  Maybe the hormones do have something to do with it?  Why else have I cried quite so much today?  But maybe sometimes it is just a good excuse for just being a bit of a crazy mental lunatic for a day, to get away with things without a rational explanation........ trouble is, you men will never know so just to be safe, you will just have to be understanding regardless.

Thursday 20 August 2009, 6:20pm _  The chocolate sacrifice for Lent apparently didn't gain me enough karma points so I'm going to try again.  I am going to face my fear.  I am going to be selfless [as selfless as one can really be when selfishly trying to gain karma points].  I am going to save lives.  I am going to give blood.

Fear of needles - check.
Squeamish disposition - check.

The perfect candidate for blood donation?  I fear I may pass out and need my blood back before my donation is even complete but I feel I should at least attempt it.  The mother always says I have a very rare blood type.  People need my blood.  But just to think of the experience, far beyond the terrifying BCG of year 11, an estimated 10 minutes with a needle in my arm.  They say you don't need to look at the blood.  But how can you not?  Who can resist looking at disturbing things, just out of curiosity?  No need for any gory details but as a member of the female population I see blood on a pretty regular basis, but after almost 10 years I have become immune to the sight of this particular event.  Normal blood, the type that comes from accidents and injuries, and flowing in to large bags for donation still makes me feel ill at the thought, I can barely stand the sight of the little brother tearing off a plaster.  Can my weak stomach really handle the experience of my blood being drained out in to a bag?  I want to save lives.  I want to make a difference.  I want those karma points up for grabs.  But I'm a total wuss!  Hopefully a month will be long enough to build up the courage to face the fear, after all... the only way to combat fear is to face it right?  Is it?  I caught a moth once but I havn't been able to face that fear again.

The job hunt has taken a back seat this week.  I am still browsing the sites, the guilt is too intense when I dare not to.  But this week my new focus has been learning my driving theory.  I started lessons when I was 17.  Oh how I wish I had just got on with it and got it out of the way.  Five years later I still can't drive.  I started learning again last summer.  But after a scary incident on the road [a car was coming toward me and I really didn't feel like we would both fit.... so in a fit of terror I put my foot on the brake and stopped randomly in the road] my confidence was destroyed.  So I gave up again.  Third time lucky now?  With no other real focus I have become possessed.  When I want to learn I will learn.  I will obsess over it until I can write my own book about it.  Yesterday I took stopping distances to a new geeky level.  Not happy to simply memorise the numbers, I put my maths brain to work and figured out the formula to work them out.  I do not have a memory brain.  I have a mathematical, logical brain.  Now to use the logical brain of mine to figure out where on earth I could have put my driving license all those years ago.

Time to go check out my fitness on the little brother's Wii... because apparently not being able to keep a tennis ball within the boundaries of the court makes me as fit as an 80 year old?!?!!  Must work on that.......

Number 62 West Parade. 30 May 2007_  The last time I slept in a double bed with the boyfriend.  For one glorious month I was a proper grown-up.  Living in my own [rented] house with friends with the man of my affections round the corner in his own [rented] house with friends.

We met early in my first year of university, he was a kind second year who befriended me on MySpace.  I saw him a few times, there were awkward glances across the dancefloor but no communication away from the keyboard.  He looked familiar but I could never figure out why.  Eventually came St Patrick's Day, the first time I spotted him and actually recognised him outside HSBC so I told my friend.  Being drunk she took the opportunity to shout out his name while I tried to hide in embarrassment.  And there began my love story.  Only I didn't love him.  The boyfriend at the time hated his friends, so disliked the friendship.  I was smitten so I offered to end the friendship if it bothered him.  Not to worry, the love story could continue.  I got dumped because apparently I just couldn't be trusted with him.  I cried a lot.  I thought my life was over.  I look back and I despair.  I despair and I cringe.  However, through the blurred vision of my tears I saw the boyfriend in a different light.  The Kooks were cool at the time, the indie look was in and this boy fit the bill quite well.  Did the ex-boyfriend have a point?  He certainly didn't at the time but maybe he saw something I didn't.  A week or two passed and after a lot of persistance I got my kiss.  A very drunken kiss.  Then came summer so months at home passed and I had once again embraced single life.

Second year of university and we were back to platonic friendship.  The housemate had a bit of a crush on his friend so we had good reason to stay friends, but once again only when drunk and through a keyboard.  In March 2007, after telling him I only wanted to be friends the light changed again.  But as a final year student was I too late?  I was getting him, I was determined.  Using my feminine charms I got myself another drunken kiss, this time much better and I wanted more.  With some school girl tactics of "my friend likes you" from the housemates I gradually wore him down.  The first date, the first sober time together, was in his bedroom watching Buffy the Musical.  He didn't kiss me.  He sat as far away on the bed from me as possible.  This wasn't the plan.  Did he really think I wanted to watch Buffy?!!  When it finished I had to bring out the big guns... the playfight.  Known to all girls, you don't watch chick flicks without taking mental notes of tactics.  It worked a treat.  Men are so easy... a bit of a playful attack with a pillow, a bit of tickling and hey presto, you have a kiss.  But my work was still incomplete.  I had gained myself a sleeping space in his comfy double bed but I still had the ex girlfriend to move aside and the much more pressing 'I'm leaving in a month' issue.  Finally on the 12 May 2007 I got him, but I also sat in curry in my white shorts so in embarrassment in the morning the issue of our relationship status wasn't raised.  Finally on the 17 May 2007 I got him, and this time it was sticking!

For two weeks of our relationship we had a double bed.  He went home to a single bed.  I went home to a single bed.  Even my university house had a single bed.  It has taken two years, but on the 11 July 2009 we finally slept in a double bed together again.  A rather long story just to reveal the news of my new doublebed but more than worth it for the chance to reminisce about the story of getting my handsome man.  The freedom, the space.  I love to be close to him, but the opportunity to just sleep in my own space.  To be 22 and finally have a grown up bed.  Wow!  All thanks to the brother though, he moved out yesterday and after a few hints to him he kindly donated his bed to me.  My large bedroom feels incredibly small now, and is definlitely taking some getting used to, but it is so worth it.

We went to the brothers house warming party last night.  The best house in the town.  I couldn't resist the urge to advise him on a better layout for his furniture but soon after we left.  I am happy for the brother.  And I am happy for the new bed.  But it is a big, beautiful, spacious and very white reminder of just what I don't have.  While he has escaped the house for a more grown-up life living with his girlfriend I feel trapped in a house with a step mother that makes it clear she doesn't want me here, and I still have the difficult goodbye to the boyfriend on Sunday evenings.  I've learnt a lot about my brother over recent weeks.  I have learnt that his seemingly perfect life is far from it, but that doesn't make me feel any less jealous and depressed about my own life. But for now I am going to enjoy some hot chocolate whilst I relax on my [big new] bed watching some TV.

Graduate Unemployment.  Oh yes, that is right friends... you are in famous company.  With the inappropriately titled blog 'unemployed graduate' the boyfriend comes in at number 1 on google when you search that paricular phrase.  Of course this was more than appropriate last summer before he landed the luckiest temp job God could send to him, but still he is harrassed by the press for his say on the situation.  So this time he sent them to the most depressed unemployed graduate he could think of..... me!  I was told I would get £50 for having a quick chat with the Daily Mail, no-one mentioned any photographs.  But then after my chat, luckily she caught me on a good day so there were no tears about my situation, she said someone will come round tomorrow to get a photograph.  Proud moment of fame, or slightly embarrassing moment of unemployment?  Perhaps I'll get spotted by employers, and a very sophisticated national newspaper is certainly a step up from my days in the local newspapers as church queen.  But is this not like starting out a TV career as the face of constipation medication?  Do I really want to be known as the girl that can't get a job, fingers crossed she mentions my very near misses in employment to show that I am a good prospect.  For now though my biggest worry is, the inevitable girly dilemma, what do I wear?!?!!

This morning the first email I read was from SRM marketing congratulating me on my success and advancement to the next stage today.  Not wanting to appear lazy, idle or workshy by not attending, and certainly having feelings to get off my chest I politely replied.  I wanted to swear at them and call them every name under the sun.  But I am polite and well-mannered, and I always maintain an air of professionalism so I refrained from telling them where to get off.  I merely explained that after my experience yesterday, and the mounting evidence discrediting their company that I no longer wished to be involved in the process or with their company.  I got no reply.

Meeting the best friend in town tomorrow and then a weekend with the boyfriend again.  After yesterdays emotional rollercoaster, which felt a bit more like the Oblivion with its one insane drop than the big dipper with its manageable ups and downs, it looks like today is the start of a good few days..... maybe a job could be thrown in to the mix of happiness? Or is that a bit greedy?

"Reach high, for stars lie hidden in your soul.  Dream deep, for every dream precedes the goal"_ Pamela Vaull Starr

On Monday I applied for a job.  One of those recession desperation jobs.  Take it or leave it I won't be offended if I don't hear back.  I heard back, wooh!  So on Tuesday I phoned to arrange an interview.  Today, I attended the interview.  As a take it or leave it desperation job I went into it fearless, "I'm not letting myself worry, It's not like its my dream job and I've never come out of an interview crying" were my famous last words to the boyfriend.  I had decided not to be worried after the father had done some research for me last night.  I had googled it to death and could barely find a thing... bad sign number 1!  The father didn't find much more, but what he did find wasn't exactly a glowing report ... definite bad sign number 2!  But what did I have to lose?  And the old fear of people judging me for not trying hard enough was haunting me enough to get me on the bus.  So I reached the building with about 20 minutes to spare but apparently had an application form to fill in so I headed straight on in, the small office was in a rather neglected looking building.... bad sign number 3!  But like I said, I had nothing to lose from the experience.  So after waiting for an hour, yes I was 20 minutes early but an hour of waiting still makes it 40 minutes late, my name was finally called.  The nerves set in slightly when I heard his strong american accent, would I be able to understand him?  It all started friendly with a chat about football... and then it turned sour.  No mention of what the job entailed, straight on to the attack.  Of course, I expect questions regarding my work experience and how I have spent the last year.  The boyfriend says I need to improve my lying truth stretching on this area but with or without my honest nature I realise that when they jot down their private little notes it may be about my lack of experience, or if I have successfully lied then my honest face that gives me away.  In short, I expect professionalism.  NO JOB.  UNEMPLOYED SINCE JULY 08.  NO EXPERIENCE.  I do not expect to see him writing such things in such huge capital letter on his sheet right in front of my eyes.  It took all my strength to not cry.  From that point on I left the room, unfortunately not physically [I so wish I had been brave enough to just walk out] but mentally I had left.  Further questioning on how my parents feel about my jobless state and living at home... the relevance?... just upset me more and I could not wait to get out.  The boyfriend phoned me afterwards to stop my tears, they weren't worth my tears.  Fair to say it was the worst interview I have ever experienced, I wasn't expecting to hear from them again

5:46pm... 01612421780 appears on my screen.  After todays hellish experience, I didn't want to answer to be told the inevitable bad news so I let it go through to my answer phone.  The message tone jingled so I nervously dialled to listen to it.  I've been chosen for the second round of observation days.  What?!?!!!?!!!  I have never performed so badly in an interview.  I nearly cried.  He scribbled nothing but negative comments on my sheet.... bad sign number 4?  Would a legitimate company invite someone back after the world's worst interview?  Strict dress code of no heels... bad sign number 5!  No heels?  Why ever not?  Am I walking around a lot, from door to door possibly?  The boyfriend was highly doubtful from the very start so off he went to google.  What would the 3rd google of this company show?  Having spoken to the father I had decided to give it a go, I would never know if I didn't try and I could leave at any time.  More importantly in my mind I feared judgement.  I feared people having no sympathy for my position if I don't take the opportunities that come my way.  I feared that people don't think I'm trying.  I fear other people's opinions of me more than I should.  But, as if 5 bad signs weren't enough the boyfriend's google produced many more not so glowing reports.

Will I be going tomorrow?  No!!!  Do I care about what people will think? No!!!  I know the people that care about me and know me understand and don't judge me.  And I will not be the victim of scammers preying on desperation, judge me on that, I'm not wrong.  Now to just find a bluddy job, father says things are picking up a bit now, fingers crossed.  Speaking to the brother about interior design, educating him on true interior design opposed to the overrated decorating shows on TV, I once again remembered why I did my degree and why I want to be a designer.  No other topic of conversation, apart from maybe girly chats about the boyfriend, makes me happier.  I can speak of nothing else with such passion and excitement.  Everthing worth having is worth waiting for, and for me this is definitely worth it..... I think the wait has been quite long enough now though.

Time for some Ugly Betty and a cold glass of refreshing milk before bed.

Jobs Applied For_ 0
Tears_ 3

We are the lost generation.  The generation that has no need to fear redundancy because we will never land that first job to set us off on the path to redundancy.  I need to stop reading the newspaper again.  With all the talk of MP's expenses I started to read the newspaper again, for almost a week I had no idea what was going on.  I didn't even know what expenses were.  But at least it was a new topic, something that wasn't going to plunge me further in to sadness.  So I waved my little white flag and surrendered myself to the news.  Reading about MPs spending stupid amounts of money on moats and scotch eggs isn't the best news for a girl with no money but it was nice to see these people get a public thrashing for their misbehaviour.  And then came June, the end of the educational year.  Thousands of new graduates flooding the labour market.  Could the newspaper make it sound any worse for these poor individuals, the class of 2009?  My only question... what happened to the class of 2008?  The forgotten class.  Where were our headlines?  Where was our sympathy?  Since January the focus has been on how hard it will be for the class of 2009, what about how hard it already is for the class of 2008?  As a fully fledged member of the class of 2008 I wish to take this opportunity to complain.  To moan and whine.  To hate the class of 2009 for having a year of bliss at university while the class of 2008 struggles on with no news headlines.  So this is to all the 2008ers out there.  The graduates that left education filled with optimism and hope only to be hit smack bang in the face with an iron door as the recession hit a month later.  We did get a mention in a BBC article the other week, we got around two sentences worth.  It has been bad for us, but it will be even worse for the 2009 graduates.  Once again, the class of 2008 has vanished.  Our wasted year has been forgotten, despite continuing unemployment and depression our extra year isn't worth mentioning next to this tragic year for the newbies.  I could have screamed when a news story about the poor 18 year old A level students came on, I'm not even going to go in to that.

Now don't get me wrong, as a depressed nutjob as a result of this recession I have every sympathy for the new batch of unemployed graduates.  I simply wish there was more recognition of the struggles of the 2008 batch.  So this is to all my unemployed peers; the 1st class honours designer who no longer feels able to apply for graduate roles a year later, the Oxford graduate who has so far only succeeded in a temporary Christmas job in Boots [lucky bitch, I didn't even get that far], the best friend who has had to return to her native South America while her daddy couldn't afford to keep her living here jobless.  To all those stuck in admin and retail, and certainly to those who can't even land such crummy jobs because we are 'overeducated'.  Bring on a general election; I didn't vote Labour in 2005, I didn't ask for this.  Perhaps it would have happened under Conservative rule.  But, of course, it is a very British trait to blame the government for everything that went wrong and believe that your party would not have made the same mistakes so today I am proud to say I am British, very British.

In other news, it is Glastonbury this week.  Booooooooooo, bring on the rain!!!  I have had to hide the boyfriend from the Facebook newsfeed.  I'm dreading the loneliness as he forgets my existence for almost a week as it is, I don't need his regular countdown updates to remind me.  The little brother is on a school holiday all week too so that is a vital distraction missing too.  However, he has let me borrow his Wii for the week so I won't hold it against him.  The mother has saved the day for Wednesday ......with tickets to see Take That.  I was devastated when they split up, I cried for days.  I was only 8 years old but they were my first boyband love.  I got to see them for my birthday mere months before they declared it was the end [which they swore at the time was never going to happen, liars!].  I feel I may still hold some resentment towards them for breaking my young heart as I havn't quite jumped on the band wagon this time around.  But mother has been wanting to get me tickets to see them since they reformed so when her friend couldn't go she pounced on her and bought them.  She said I could take a friend but her voice said otherwise, like an eager child screaming "pick me, pick me" I couldn't possibly take anyone else.  I didn't really have anyone else available to take, but I would have taken her anyway.

Jobs Applied For_ 0
Tears_ 0 [I have been 'clean' for 4 days]
5-a-day?_ Still no appetite, I did have a small tomato in a sandwich though and my daily apple juice... a little is better than nothing

"On behalf of every man, looking out for every girl, you are the god and the weight of her world"_ John Mayer.

Like I said yesterday, I couldn't have asked for a better family.  And as if to prove a point both the parents were on excellent form tonight.  I had been feeling ok today, I had been playing with grass on my 3d visualising program for the boyfriend.  After 3 years of using it I still get overexcited when something looks real, and today it was the grass.  The distraction and focus has definitely been good for me; like the website designing made me feel like my days had a purpose a few months ago, this visualising and stepped up job hunt has made my days feel less wasted again.  But then, seemingly for no reason; I couldn't put my finger on what had caused it, but from nowhere I began to feel quite down.

Mother's spidey-senses kicked in and while I was feasting on my beans on toast she phoned me to invite me on a trip to Tesco.  So off I went, I'm not a particularly big fan of Tesco but I could do with browsing the aisles for fathers day.  And ultimately I was going to go up for a visit anyway to get in my exercise with a bit of time on the Wii with the little brother, and after my aching arms from the weekend's Wii boxing I figured that this was a surefire way to build up my obviously pathetic arm muscles.  I try my best not to win too often because he is quite a sore loser, I am far too competitive myself and hate to lose but you have to do these things for love.  After a few rounds of golf he left me to play out with his friend.  But I admit, I am Victoria and I am a Wii addict.  So I stayed up in his bedroom to play by myself, after all this was my days exercise, it had to be done.  I heard the finishing tune of Emmerdale and heard some footsteps coming up.  It was mother coming up to see how I am, I fear both the parents are under the impression I may take one too many paracetamol any day now.  So I invited her to play with me... now the sight of the little brother playing, and the concentration on the boyfriends face is funny enough but mother took it to a whole new level with her boxing.  Nobody looks their best on that console, and I'm still praying that the boyfriend never feels the need to put his video of me seemingly making sex noises while I struggle to row my canoe on YouTube, but watching mother playing tonight certainly brightened my day......

.....until I got home.  Bring on parent number 2.  The dreaded question when I am feeling low; "Are you ok?"..... a failsafe method to bring on the tears.  It is my kryptonite.  He had been sat in the room playing with his laptop for a bit but it was when he was leaving that he noticed me looking sad.  He had one foot out the door when he asked the question.  He was going nowhere.  The floodgates opened.  "Whats wrong?".... another question that generally just causes tears while I try to take some charge of my brain and formulate a sentence to express my feelings.  Today the feelings weren't step mother related, I still don't know if I will ever have the heart to bring that up, but I did pour out my heart about everything else.  There was a short pause while he talked me out of my hyperventilating state, but there were lots of cuddles.  He isn't good with emotions so I don't expect a lot from him in these situations but to just be there to hold me and be my daddy.  When I had calmed down I got some time to talk to him, I don't talk to him a lot... he is a man always on the go, or lost in the big maze that is my home.  Given my recent questioning of my religious beliefs I questioned him on why he had given up on his.  I was surprised to hear that he hadn't, well not completely at least.  He is an engineer so he has a very science based belief system which ultimately contradicts with religion but at the same time he is a very spiritual man who believes in everything and nothing.  He can't believe in one superior being but he will not rule out the many alternative beliefs of people, how can he prove them to be right or wrong?  And apparently Stephen Hawkin believes in God, and so did Darwin... who would have thought it.  A bit later he popped back down with some CDs for me to copy for him, apparently he keeps forgetting to do it and he needs to give them back to his friend soon.  Mindfulness Meditation.  What a handy time for him to remember...........

I spoke to a friend I grew up with in church today also.  Who better to turn to when in religious crisis?  I believe that God will not give anyone more than they can handle, and that suffering must be a part of life... but I do not feel I can handle my load at the moment. "God is always there and gives you the tools you need to get through it" were his wise words.  Nonsense, I thought.  I'm struggling to get through it and see no tools.  I see my tools now; from the boyfriend talking me through it on Friday night to the parental never ending love and support, and the thoughtful friends always there to talk to when I need them.

Jobs Applied For_ 1
Tears_ A waterfall
5-a-day? A general appetite would help...

"You can choose your friends but you can't choose your family"

I love my friends, even the ones I didn't choose.  You can't always choose your friends when you are put with 5 total strangers to live with in university halls but even those I loved.  I love my family, I think I was extremely lucky with the parents I was given, and even though we had a rough few teenage years I get on well with my brother and my little brother looks up to me like a second mother.  But then there is the question of step family, surely you should be allowed a say in them?  But then there is also the saying that you can't choose who you fall in love with.  It started when I was about 10.  Mummy left daddy for the school caretaker.  I hated him.  He split up my family.  He was old enough to be my grandad.  And in the first few years he could get a bit scary when he mixed his drinks.  But without him I wouldn't have my little brother.  And he has changed a lot, and I have grown up a lot and no longer see him as the man who stole mummy from daddy.  I wouldn't change him and I am happy to have him as my step father.  I always wanted father to be happy, I wanted to see him move on.  First he tried it on with a lesbian, obviously that didn't work out for him so he just accepted her as his best friend.  Then he started going to gay clubs with her, as far as I know (and want to know) he remained straight.  Then came the mid-life crisis when he brought home Helen the 22 year old, quite worrying when he suggested that she could help me revise for my German GCSE, after all it wasn't that long ago that she did hers.  Then came Pauline.  The step mother.  She seemed shy, never really spoke to me.  And then off I went to university.  Her and the two ugly step sisters moved in a week later and took over my bedroom.  Not the best start to the family relations.  When I came home during holidays I accepted that it was hard for us to talk because we had missed the crucial weeks early on getting to know each other.  Since then nothing has changed.  We got a bigger house so I could have a bedroom again and a conservatory was built so that fatty could have a bedroom.  And here is where today's story truly begins as I have been over the other dramas in other blogs.  Fatty has moved out.  She has moved in with her boyfriend and his mother, which I barely count as moving out but she is gone.  So the conservatory is now being put to its true use.  But it has a lock on it.  A lock that I never understood, nobody else has keys for their bedroom... it may have been downstairs but it was still understood that it was a bedroom so why would we want to go raiding it?  I optimistically, very wrongly, assumed that the lock would now be gone.  After all, a conservatory is a standard family room isn't it.  A room for general use.  How very wrong I was.  It is not a conservatory.  It is a room only for the step mother.  It has remained locked since fattys departure, only left unlocked after father has been in there.  I have never felt welcome.  And now this powergame played by an immature 40 year old has made me feel truly unwanted in my own home, like a filthy germ to be sprayed and obliterated as soon as possible.  But how do you tell your dad that the woman he loves makes you feel so awful?  That one of the main reasons for a lot of your tears is his darling wife?  I don't know.  And I don't know what good it would do anyway.  In 4 years we have barely spoken, I can't imagine knowing that I don't like her is going to open up the conversational channels.  I don't feel I can talk to him, I hate to upset him and add stress to his life.  But I don't feel I can carry on like this either; I'm his little girl, his little pumpkin, surely he wouldn't want to be left in the dark about how it makes me feel....

In other news, I had a WONDERFUL weekend with the boyfriend.  Even when we don't do anything, which is a regular occurence as my town has very little to do, I still feel happy.  I feel little or no need to cry.  I finally opened up to him on Friday about everything that bothers me.  I have tried very hard to not burden him with my problems, and not let on to him just how down in the dumps I have felt at times.  He isn't the depressive type at all and I always feel like he hates it when I cry.  But he told me to open up.  I felt a lot better being able to talk to him.  He thinks I'm a total nutjob but he loves me and I feel a lot better knowing that he is there for me and I can talk to him...... still going to keep it to a minimum though, I can be down so much sometimes that he would end up having to see a doctor himself to deal with all my emotional baggage.  Then on Saturday he proved himself as the best boyfriend in the world by buying me the new season Burnley shirt... which I wear with pride at all times in the house, going to give it a few weeks before it gets a public showing though, with it only going on sale on Friday I don't want to look like a poser.   But for now I shall wear it lots and remember just how wonderful he is at all times, even though he has left me with a 2 litre bottle of Pepsi to drink.  I already feel like quite a bloated bear.

Jobs Applied For_ 3
Tears_ 2
5-a-day?_ I tried but all my bananas were already open, eugh!