In my skin, I don’t feel comfortable. I mean, it’s like I’m a stranger waiting to burst out of a shell and become this marvellous camp butterfly, like in that Monty Python animation.

The woman staring back at me in the mirror is still a stranger, after all these years. When I touch myself, I don’t feel like I’m touching myself, but this other, super-charged sexual being.

I haven’t been able to mesh my Erotic Meet and blog persona of Jilly Boyd with my true self yet. For that matter, who is that “true self”? Maybe I am Jilly Boyd. Deep inside, I know that she was and is what I crave to be: an accomplished person with confidence in her sexuality and a shy smile on her face.

What I am when I’m not Jilly is a honking piece of mess. I can hardly keep it together these days. I crave to be her like I crave a bottle of wine and a lurk of Graham Chapman’s trusty pipe. My dark side comes out.

I know it is hard to see it, but I often compare myself to Graham. Underneath that solemn, striking and authorative figure was a man of dualities. His drinking and obsessive pipe smoking made him a very difficult man to live with (as ever, correct me if I’m wrong, Python fans). I imagine I am quite difficult to live with. I imagine I have caused my mother a lot of pain and grievances over the years.

Sometimes, in even darker moments, I can’t help comparing myself to John Kennedy Toole. Ever since I read his backstory, I fear the same will happen to me.

You see, the story goes that when Mr Toole wrote his novel, “A Confederacy of Dunces”, he had trouble selling it to publishers. It drove him to the brink of insanity and he eventually commited suicide.

Years later, a relative (I believe it to be his mother) found the “…Dunces” manuscript in the attic and successfully sold it. It has since become a cult classic.

What if that happens to me? What if I write an incredibly sexy and good novel and never get it sold? Will I eventually grow so desperate that I take my own life?

I have come to crave physical attention. I have come to crave emotional attention. The two are so badly needed that I cry buckets every night because it has become clear to me that sitting on my arse on my couch in Belgium will not help me get what I need.

I am a stranger in my skin.

Save me.

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1 Comment

  1. ~hugs you~

    I’ve been there, I still go there, but it’s your creativity that drives you – find ways to set it free, there are so many!!! That will set *you* free, the real you, the butterfly.



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