it's my point of view, coming up behind you

I feel compelled to write an entry after a drunken night where my now ex boyfriend asked to see a picture of Cameron (my younger, handsome yet equally neurotic ex boyfriend circa 2011) which meant coming back here. I admire the longevity of this blog, and thought, despite all the other ideas I have had since, I should still when possible write in Master Bracknell.

This year I had one of the most difficult relationhips ever. 6 months in and I've finally broke free. It was a testing experience, full of hurt feelings and self doubt. My summer poisoned, and I even had to start taking tablets and seek professional mental help. I have however gained a new life perspective as a result, as the whole thing has made me confront some serious issues regarding my attitude to my life and now I am as sure as I've ever been about it all.

Last night was the end, and no ending is pleasant. I am lucky enough to have a good friend to confide in when I drunkenly left his last night, but had to go to the blessing of the graves today for my grandad who died in January. I am an athiest, so being in church feeling like shit felt more culty than ever. I remember grandad in my own way, but that still didn't make me not feel bad for not wanting to be there. Why we have to have religion in the first places fucks me off, but to drag out this year in 'memory' of my grandad when my mother and aunt are clearly not coping with this doesn't really help. It's like the funeral is on repeat. It's ridiculous, and prayer doesn't help or save anything, and I feel like a weirdo when I'm around them all.

While I was standing in church, hoping I wouldn't spontaneously combust, I couldn't help thinking about all the things I can do now that I am single. I don't have to take any more criticism or shit, dye my hair, and go for food with people who think I'm a useless snob. No more feeling inadequate or dirty or crackers or riddled. No more snapping at and telling me off. No more unfair compromises and stupid social media obsessions. I can now move to London, talk to who I want, go where I want. I can shave my pubic hair. And I can stop apologising for being myself. I'll never let this happen ever again.

And you know what? I actually don't ever want a boyfriend. If all relationships are like this (and I'm surrounded by horrendous ones everywhere), then I'd rather do myself a favour and fuck it right off.