Who are you now?

Have you ever just looked at a picture or in the mirror and felt a complete lack of identity? Like your mind doesn’t fit you anymore. You feel like a stranger to yourself and you can’t help but wonder if you were always like this.

It's difficult to explain, when you act one way one minute and the next, it's like it never happened. There's no consistency to you or your interests. You're reckless and do silly things, then when you look back, you have no idea why you did them. 

People label you. 'She's a looney' or 'she's crazy'. I'm not either, I'm ill and if you think I'm hard to cope with, how do you think I feel? Imagine how it would feel to have no idea who you are. There's no certainty of anything, you can't see the future because you can't even see who you are.

It's so fucking difficult and I can't explain it because no one does understands. No one can understand. Sure, you can relate maybe. But that's the thing, no one gets it, not unless it's happening to them. 

Part four of what the fuck do I put as the title?

I suppose the only remotely nice memory, if you can call it that is the time I got my head stuck in a cat flap. Sounds hilarious, doesn't it? Pfft. That fucking cat had it out for me from the start. So, like usual I was pottering around with my dolls, for once trying to behave myself when this big, fluffy black and white beast decided to cross paths with me. My arch enemy, Betsey the cat. Personally, I think it was entirely unfair for her to not let me use her tail as a feather boa for my barbies. I can just remember engaging in a glaring match with her. Her green eyes locked onto mine. Then, when I was least expecting it, she made a run for it out of the door. “Oh no she didn't.” I was adamant that she wouldn't get away from me this time, so I pursued her, trying to climb through this little hole in the front door. I desperately tried to grab on to her but my valiant attempt had failed. The cat was half way across the garden and I...Well I was fucking stuck to put it bluntly.

Part three of what the fuck do I put as the title?

Yeah, you read it right, not only am I crackers, I couldn't stop a pig in an alley either. At least my co-ordination's in sync with my mind. Always look on the bright side of life. Bollocks. I can't be the only one who wants to punch someone in the face when they say that? It's like “Yeah you sit there and preach to me, try living my life.” I've just realised in the middle of this sentence that you have absolutely no idea what I'm ranting about. Not to worry, we'll get to the good bit soon. This book or story or whatever it is, will probably be as all over the place as my head is. There's gonna be bad days, a lot of them actually. The good days don't come as often as I'd like but hey, beggars can't be choosers. It's all about getting through the bad days that counts. So I suppose in a fashion, I'm gonna be writing about how to get through hell and giving you an idea on how to as well. Although, vodka and cigarettes can only do so much. Shush, I can't promote them.

Part two of what the fuck do I put as the title?

At the age of four, I was absolutely positive that the only thing consistent in my life was the horrendous block fringe I had and the fact that there would always be bloody gaps in it. Like my fringe, there was lots of gaps in my life too. You can tell straight off I'm not all there, I mean who the hell relates their life to a fringe? But anyway, back to the story at hand. I tend to go off subject a lot, just a warning. So like every other kid in England at the age of four, I started school. I hated it. I never wanted to leave my mum, I'd cling on to her for dear life but she still always used to leave me there. “You've got to go to school, Hannah. I'll pick you up later.” Like hell I was gonna stay there and leave her on her own. I always found a way to get sent home early. I'd either wind myself up that much that I'd puke everywhere or I'd fall over a chair on purpose. In hindsight, it probably wasn't on purpose. I've always had the co-ordination of a one legged man on LSD.

Part one of what the fuck do I put as the title?

Hi, my name's Hannah and in a nutshell, I'm a fuck up. My life mainly consists of cigarettes, vodka and a whole lot of complaining.

I was born kicking and screaming and according to my mum; I never stopped. I was forever in trouble and almost always classed as a disgrace. Which is ironic, considering my name. I was a tiny little thing with big brown eyes, I looked as though butter wouldn't melt. Oh, what a shock it was to everyone when I decided to have a tantrum. The spawn of Satan was something I got called a lot, not surprising though, considering I was like something possessed. It wasn't normal, I've always known that much. I'd fly into fits of rage for no apparent reason, I was angry at the world at the age of three. You're probably thinking I was the child from hell right now, from an outsiders point of view, I was. What no one realised was that I was living in hell.

They called me Margaret Thatcher as a child, I was the three year old with an opinion. I was one of those bratty, obnoxious kids; you know the ones who lay on the floor screaming in the supermarket? Yeah, that was me. I used to do it regularly actually, I'd take my shoes off and launch them at whoever was in close range, my socks would be next. I'd lay on the floor and pull my dress over my head, shouting and swearing until I got what I wanted. I don't think I was ever sure of what I wanted, though. It was never for the toys or the sweets, it was more for the attention and boy, didn't I get it. I can still remember my parents shouting and pinching the bridges of their noses, hiding their faces in embarrassment. “What the bloody hell is wrong with her now?” Was usually the first question, then I'd be yanked up off the floor, marched out of the shop and put in the car. My mother despaired of me and my father resented me. “Why can't she be more like her brother?” I asked myself the same question a lot of the time. Why couldn't I be more like him?