Kat Sadler: The girl who doesn’t know what she wants, and is afraid to get it

An enemy of an enemy is my friend. Unfortunately, I am my own worst enemy.

In the confusion of trying to work out whether this means I am friends with myself or not, I have created several more enemies inside my brain. Chances are that some of those enemies are also enemies with each other. I am now infested with friends and enemies and I don’t know who is who, but they’re all me, so I think the best thing to do in this situation is to try to become friends with myself. This is tricky because I am the worst.

Whenever I am performing at a gig, it feels like that there is me on stage, attempting to perform comedy, but there’s also another me in the audience, on the front row, watching me, and she absolutely fucking hates it.

She hates every single second of this. “Who let this tiny baby bird on stage?” She says, angrily, right in the middle of my set. “Why is she so frightened? She makes me angry because she’s taking five minutes of my precious time away from me. And what’s with all the bloody chirping?”

At the same time, there’s this other part of me, a tiny voice that says, “bird seed”. No, it doesn’t say that. It says, “hey, remember when that person said that joke you did was funny? Remember how that felt better than anything has ever felt in your pathetic life, and you rode that pitiful high for weeks?” That voice hates me as well, but she can’t argue with the delicious endorphins, because she wants them too, the selfish bitch.

I was recommended Propranolol for stage fright by a friend, which I made an appointment with my doctor about. I got so close to getting it prescribed, and then at the last second her screen flashed up, outing me for having asthma. Propranolol can trigger an asthma attack. I said I was willing to risk it, but at this point she had stopped listening and was busy trying to shoo me out of her window with a massive tea towel.

I am built on fear. Sometimes I think the only reason I allowed myself to be born was because of my fear of enclosed spaces.

feeling mild.png

Feeling MILD.

Everyone is the protagonist of their own story, but I have typecast myself as a background character.

I’m a big wuss. I see so many pictures of people out, enjoying themselves in the sun, sipping margaritas. The closest I get to drinking a margarita is when I’m making a cup of tea to drink in my bedroom and accidentally spill a bit of sugar on the rim.

I don’t really drink. But when I do drink, I get insecure. One of the ways this manifests itself is I start changing my friend’s names in my phone to “best friend”. I get insecure a lot, and this has happened so often that now everyone in my phone is set to “best friend” and I have no idea who I’m texting anymore. Which is a nightmare, because I’d really need my best friend in a time like this, and I’ve accidentally texted someone I stopped speaking to in year 11.

I’m also bizarrely in a stable relationship at the moment. I’ve started as many Netflix shows as physically possible with him to minimise the risk of him leaving.

I don’t have much else to say about it really, apart from recently we were alone in my house very late, and I heard a noise outside. Classically, I started to freak out about the idea of someone breaking into the house, and he spent twenty minutes calmly explaining to me how safe we were, and how the unlikely a break in would be.

The next day he told me that he then waited until I fell asleep to freak out, plan a detailed escape route for us out of the house and how he would negotiate if we were taken hostage. I think that’s love. Or gaslighting, I’m not sure. I’m going to go with love for now.

I should probably text him, but I really don’t know which ‘best friend’ he’s saved under.

***

Audience Kat (reading this, from the other side of her laptop): What a fucking piece of shit this blog is. I can’t believe I wasted my time trying to read it. That baby bird metaphor that went nowhere? That bit about a boy at the end? Jesus Christ, I’ve just vomited all over the floor. She’s the worst person alive, and now she’s going to share it, and the endorphins of a single like will make her feel like writing this was worth it. What a loser.

Me: Wait! Give me a chance! I can do this! I can find my voice, I can-

Audience Kat: Sorry, did someone say something? All I can hear is chirp chirp chirp.

Me: But I think I can really-

Audience Kat: CHIRP CHIRP CHIRP.

Me: Chirp chirp chirp.

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