How wonderful I feel hosting Alienora the Great on my humble blog!
Although dear Ali sent me this post a week ago, I did not have the time and energy to post it up till now.
So, without further ado, here is Alienora’s, who is my mentor in many ways, guest blog in the form of a very relatable, very heart wrenching, post.
Fear of loss
Beneath the larger than life persona, I am incredibly insecure – always have been – and it revolves around a terrible fear of loss, of being rejected.
Every morning, I wake up with the bone-deep fear that those I love will have stopped wanting to be in my life: that something about me will have put them off.
When I meet friends, I look into their faces – and then quickly avert my eyes – to see if there is still warmth and friendship there.
This degree of terror is crippling and distressing, exhausting and saddening.
It means that I put a negative slant on many things which are either neutral or even positive.
But why am I like this? Why am I so certain, at a very deep level, that I am fundamentally unworthy, undeserving of love and attention?
It is very difficult to explain the sense of having no fixed emotional security, of being so lost in this huge universe – of feeling, most of the time, completely insignificant.
It is very difficult for others too, because I am almost impossible to reassure and soothe, my whole unspoken stance, and plea, being, ‘Do you still love me?’
Why shouldn’t people want to be my friend?
Because, underneath the good bits, there is a subterranean world of seething nastiness, jealousy, resentment, clinging possessiveness and complete absence of charm. I fear that, at my core, I am a cold fish, a manipulative cow and eminently forgettable.
Whenever I have, in the past, fallen in love with a man, I have become convinced, almost immediately, that every other woman in the known universe is superior to me – and have actually felt myself begin to disappear, as if I were composed of the thinnest and most insubstantial mist.
I think I know the answer to the ‘Why?’ above – and it is something which, even now, makes me want to weep, and also fills me with self-hatred and shame.
I am the oldest of five children, four of us girls. One of the girls, subsequently given a name rather like my father’s, was born when the marriage was in severe difficulties – and this child became my dad’s absolute and clear favourite. Hurtfully so – for her as well.
The thing he used to do that was SO destructive – and so damaging to our growing sense of ourselves as female – was to plan day trips, just for this sister. At that point, there were only three of us – and it still makes me want to cry when I think of the two of us watching, from an upstairs window, as the favoured one was tucked into the car and driven off by Dad.
I can feel that terrible pain as I write, that dreadful sense that I was, in some way I could not quite put my finger upon, damaged goods, inferior, not good enough to deserve a treat. And it widened into a sense that, whatever I did, I would never be as pretty, as sexy, as talented as attractive to men as my sister.