Sunday
Breakfast: A packet of crisp & a cup of tea
Lunch: Spaghetti Bolognese
Dinner: Prosecco
For twenty-five years of marriage, a couple will receive silver gifts. And, this is the age I will be in two months. Silver is how others see me, never quite managing to turn into gold. Others with a dull shine, disguised by smoke and mirrors, receive beating hearts in their hands.
I was neglected as a child, not by my parents but by my teachers. My talents/efforts went unacknowledged. I remember that day Miss. Richardson hauled seven-year-old me in front of Year 6 to embarrass me. She told them how awful my work was, and even the teacher didn’t know what to do as I stood next to her, wailing. She was a cruel bitch, like so many others who have crossed my path.
Becoming a household name was favourable. I’ve always wanted to be great. Leaving a legacy is critical to me. This business is fickle, and it’s so damn tricky to receive the praise you want. It’s almost like a stampede, racing to the top of a pile of bodies who are clamouring for the same thing.
Being a bigger girl comes with a lot of prejudice. All the adverts on TV about body insecurity come from thin women who are the typical beauty standard, *eye roll*. Society looks down on us, trying to morph us into little dolls. Sometimes, I feel like my youth was wasted. People always talk of how slim they were when they were young, but I didn’t have that. I loathe the passion with which people discuss ‘petite’ women. They are the pillars of what it means to be pretty.
I am 5ft4, and I weigh more than I’d like. Marilyn was beautiful, but she was a typical skinny Minnie. They don’t want actual curves/rolls, only a rose-tinted version. Having proportions of fat on your body is demonised by this hypocritical society. They say one thing, but they do another. And, every time I find someone who looks like me, they fall prey to what a woman ‘should’ look like. Adele is my most recent example. Look at how people treat her now compared to before. It’s maddening.
I’m sick with grief, and nobody sees it. All my letters from Stewart are hidden in a box. They’ll be coming with us to the new house. I’ve considered burning them, but something stops me. I promised I’d never forget him. Maybe that was a mistake.
Courtenay's Corner 