I have been thinking about the YouTube channel I am going to set up after Christmas a lot, I have been trying to think about what it should be mostly about. People like themes, they don’t like random people no matter how authentic they are, or do they?
I mean, I like a lot of stuff and I would like to do a lot of stuff – I don’t want to be bored with the same old same old, you know?
I want to sometimes read out my poetry to people, I want to share gardening tips and recipes and my journey through weight loss and other things. I don’t want to just be a gardening vlog, or a beauty and fitness vlog or a writing vlog. I want to do the whole caboodle, now people say, sure you can do this but have multiple channels, but I don’t really want to do that.
If I had multiple channels, then I will need to film and edit every day for a once a week post on each and that is taking up more time than I want to do.
Plus I am none too thrilled about the editing process, I hate doing anything technical for too long.
One of my biggest desires in having a YouTube channel is to visibly show people my weight loss, fitness progresses. But contrary to that there are two things I hate about it… the fame this could give me and the fact I have to show my fat ugly body and face on the camera, or else, what am I showing?
I’m paranoid enough without being famous!
Seriously, you have no idea how paranoid I am when a stranger points and looks like they are talking about me. I mean… I can’t cope now, let alone when I know they know me… you know… at least right now I can put it down to me being a schizoid, of course they aren’t really pointing at me…. Until they then call me fat ass to my face and I am like… ok I guess they were then, rude!
I keep my mouth shut to people who shout that at me, primarily because I want to live. But inside I want to shout out “Like your lip will be if you carry on mate”!
If people knew the attitude that goes on inside my head, I would have been murdered years ago!
I don’t like the idea of going out dressed up in a headscarf and huge sunglasses and learning to turn my head away from anyone as I walk past them like some super international spy!
I just want to dawdle down the street in my scruffs on a lazy day, walking a dog, without it being splashed on the papers “TC bad hair day” or “TC midlife crisis” you know.
But then again, there are days where the attention whore comes out and it’s like “for goodness sake notice me, notice me, stop ignoring me, why am I being ignored when I have just walked down the street looking like a bowl of fruit”?
Thing is, I do like attention if I have to be honest with you. But the problem is, on my terms and the world doesn’t work like that!
Fame scares me because of the stupid lengths some journalists will go to for a good pic and a front page position in their newspaper; it’s disgusting what some people will do to advance themselves.
When I was little I was famous for a few months in North London as being a pageant queen stripped of her rightful prize because of nepotism in the judging panel. I remember someone taking me by the hand to pull me away from my mum so they got a perfect shot of me, The Angel of Burnt Oak!
That scared me, let alone the incidences with a couple of my more famous relatives.
The universe has wanted me to be famous for a long time, but I have always fought it. My grandmother and some of the Romany relatives we have often sat down having fortune telling annuals for the family and from the age of seven they have all been convinced I will be a huge name in the world someday; though they said I will be late in getting that name. I will be in my early forties.
They suggested even back then, that I am destined for greatness, I will find greatness myself, but I will find someone equally great to spend my life with. They warned me I would have a child with a man but then I would leave him to start a second family quite late in life.
Though I would start all this late in life, my legacy would be huge and I would be like Shakespeare or Charles Dickens in how long my fame will last.
Vanity, I know – I know its vanity and I would hold my hands up and say, you think I am bad for this now? You should have seen me when I was thinner and I felt prettier than I do now, then you’d know how vain I really can be!
I even have a playlist called “Vanity” where you will find songs on it such as “keep young and beautiful” by Annie Lennox, “You’re never fully dressed without a smile” by the musical Annie and “beautiful and dirty rich” by Lady Gaga!.
So yes vanity has always been part of what I call “my true” personality, but it has been badly abused and supressed over the years. Make no mistake, I don’t think I am beautiful, but I do know there’s a lot of people who said I am and although I don’t believe them, I take their word for it; as the world isn’t generally nice about that sort of thing, unless it’s true and I know a lot of beautiful people who hate themselves too.
I used to obsess over my looks a lot because I can’t stand it when another woman notices; you forgot to do your eyebrows today, omg you have no lip liner, just lipstick?
I can’t afford to be vain anymore; I don’t have the budget for it. But when I got sick in 2014 I totally let myself go because my illness made me bedbound and for a while we thought I had some type of cancer, but it wasn’t.
I also thought, nobody is interested in me with a child and I am approaching forty, why bother? Especially with my baggage.
But I have been doing a lot of inner child therapies lately and its waking the true me up again – I love it, but I also hate the idea of people seeing my changes and thinking I am trying too hard to impress others or that I am being pretentious, when in fact I am actually becoming my more authentic and very supressed self!
As a child, before my mother started to peel me apart from the age of 7yrs I used to love standing in front of people performing for them, singing, acting, dancing, showing off and being my beautiful self in such cocky little way! This I believe is one of the reasons behind why my grandad called me “cocker” because I was cocky before my mother got her nails into me!
It’s funny but I started to get fat around the time mum started to hate me and supress me, before that, when I had her love and support, I was blooming marvellous and hadn’t a care in the world, I could move mountains with my confidence.
She insisted she needed to hold me down though, or I was going to the devil, she especially freaked out when I got the notion of burlesque – a thing I saw on TV thanks to my grandad and uncle watching it and predicting that will be me when I am older, mark their words!
My grandma said if I turn out like that, I’d definitely be following her mother’s footsteps as she was a cancan dancer and burlesque performer! Imagine that, my great grandma a cancan performer!
As a child my biggest career dream was to be a fashion designer but my mother worked like a woodpecker on my confidence when she found this out and wouldn’t encourage anything that might be connected to fashion and destroyed my sense of self love as much as possible to get this stupid dream out of my head.
Yet, ironically, it was she who’d force me into the pageants until I became embarrassingly fat for her and she told me she was ashamed to be seen in public with me because of it.
So yes, given the right environment, the right sense of self, I am a vain creature and attention whore to boot and my mother did everything possible to knock me off the pedestal I was on, because she felt the way I was going my life would be filled with sin if she didn’t act cruel to be kind.
But I have tried hard not to be vain, narcissistic or to reach too high – because I can’t stand the reactions from people like my mother who are vitriolic and jealous or greedy to try and do something to you to either destroy you or make entertainment out of you.
I have to say it has been a battle that’s been with me my whole life. I want to be this great person that everyone admires and to be beautiful and loved, but I also don’t want the evil that comes with it. You know?
I am on a weight loss journey, so I can be whoever I want to be unashamedly and with a little extra confidence – I will never have oodles of confidence, but I am going to fake it until I make it and I want to be a butterfly or better yet, a peacock!
As I’ve said before, I have had to learn to do everything on an emotional level alone – no support – no friends, nada.
It’s scary to think of what I could be if I am still alone, you know? I need security, I mean emotional security. Yeah sure, physical security, physical assistance is in abundance in the world, but it’s the emotional security that really counts.
I’ve never been taught to cope with grief or have my grief acknowledged by anyone. I was always made to feel bad and selfish when I was sad and grieving a loss.
Told I am a stupid girl who needs to snap out of it, snap out of the idea my grandpa has just died, the same grandpa who I lived with for the last 3 months of his life as he died of cancer right before my eyes!
10yrs old and all I got was a pat on the head from my dad, nothing else from anyone else, when grandpa died, when I was still tearful after three days, people became aggressive with me – get over it you stupid girl stop going on trying to get attention for yourself!
All I wanted was a cuddle, some kind words, but being raised by adults who are all self-absorbed, obviously they don’t think about anyone but themselves. They might have been a close family in that we had a massive family extended for five or even six generations that still maintained contact, but they were not supportive of each other. They were not the kind of family that pulled together to grieve and help each other, they all go off into their own small groups or by themselves and the children usually end up forgotten.
When raised by people like this, is it any wonder then, why I cry when a stranger shows me kindness and goes out of their way to be nice to me and sympathetic?
Because I am genuinely not used to being treated with any kind of humanity!
I was raised like a thing, not a person.
I remember when I was in therapy groups as a teenager, I remember joking with my peers about how I wasn’t raised I was dragged up and spat out, reeled in and clout, clout, clout.
My peers though knowing it to be tragic laughed, the therapists cried and some refused to treat me as my case was so specifically hard, they needed a lot of mental time off from work, as hearing what I went through, broke them.
It happened to a lot of therapists, I often had them in tears when I recalled my normal daily life and they’d have to end sessions early. I tried my best actually to hold back a lot because I needed the therapy, but some of them insisted I didn’t – my mother did.
I remember one therapist in particular was so aggrieved by what I went through, she broke all protocol just to give me a long, long tight hug as she cried and she told me, she so desperately wants to get me away from my parents and adopt me. Then she came to her senses and she couldn’t be in therapy with me alone anymore, she had to have a colleague with her to maintain a professional standard. This woman worked tirelessly to try and have me removed from custody of my parents, but she failed.
I was weirdly happy with quite a bit of my childhood until I realised that my parents weren’t normal, after seeing so many professionals break like that. I really thought it was normal that at 7am you’re kicked out into the garden until lunch time, made to entertain yourself when you’re not at school with only a dog and a rabbit as company or the elderly neighbours talking to you over a fence.
At 12:15pm daddy comes home for lunch, perfectly normal to cook for him and yourself, eat your lunch and get out into the garden by 12:45 again until you’re called in for dinner at 4pm same routine, mums working night shift, you got to cook for everyone – then outside again until 7pm.
I thought it was perfectly normal to only bath once a week and nothing else and that in the summer your bath became the kids paddling pool, but with soap!
Of course it’s not, I know that now, but back then, it’s normal life!
I remember my mum when I was of legal age to drink getting excited that I was of age to become her drinking partner at nightclubs, but I was terrified of going to places like that and refused to go. She was disappointed, but still tried to have drinking nights in with a slap up meal with her mates and tried to make me drink alcohol with her – “here love, drink more of this, you are more human after you’ve got a drink down you, you’re so tight otherwise… go on have another and another”.
She nearly poisoned me one night when I gave in to every temptation. I got so ill I nearly needed the hospital, the hallucinations were really, really bad – she said it was only alcohol, but I never really knew.
Dad was furious.
I still went with mum to her mates, but I started to insist control in my drinks and never trusted anything given to me after that – I wanted to know my orange was just orange and not some exotic new type that mysteriously contained vodka or gin that they didn’t tell me about.
I am not tight; I will drink, but not enough to get drunk.
So yeah, all sorts of things could end up on my vlog, but I won’t make it a sympathise with me vlog. It will all be upbeat or informative, nothing dull, nothing depressing; it will be my happy place.
I was thinking about being 100% authentic on there, no matter how tragic it is. Doing all sorts of things, whether I get laughed at or not, because no doubt I will because I am cheeky – I am self-deprecating and I do stupid things, I am accident prone, I am just not graceful and clueless… it will be hilarious.
I mean the other day, I was putting on something really tight and I struggled and I was hopping around the room like a Chinese vampire, trying to heave these darn pants on and I fell ass over tit on my face!
Don’t be surprised if that happens in the vlogs if I am brave enough to show my face!
Henry forgot his password to his Roblox game review channel he had, where I’d comment from time to time funny little quips now and again, interrupting his shows and he said if it weren’t for me, he wouldn’t have had as many views – because a lot of people loved the mum stuff.
We thought at the time, Henry was a budding “Morgz” because he did a lot of stuff with his mum didn’t he?
Well this post is getting a bit long now, so I think I had better end it here, sorry about that, just so much on my mind tonight.
Thanks for reading!