Just like my mum, I got real good at pretending.

I would pretend to be confident.

Pretend that I was stable.

Pretend not to care.

I got so good at it, I began losing myself within the game of my very own pretending.

Behind a smile, I would hide so much.

I was unhappy, and too young to know how to make myself happy again.

I clung to the things that gave me light during my teenage darkness—nan and gramp, my brother, Lucy and a few other friends, Mr Tully and the horses—they all kept me from disappearing into the morbid depths of myself.

At school, I was merely attending for the social aspect of my educational life. I wasn't academic, and never would be. As I was approaching being sixteen, I had zero clue about where I wanted to take the next stage of my life. I loved to write. I loved to sing. But didn't think that I could possibly make a living from doing any of them for a living.

The security of school was coming to an end, and it terrified me.

My confidence was at an all-time low. The inner loathing for myself was going to accompany me on the next phase of my problematic life. Inwardly, I hated who I was. Outwardly, I hated myself even more. At a time when I thought things couldn't get any worse, they absolutely did.

Acne—would become yet another bane of my life.

It began with the odd spot, them boom, I soon had families of spots!

The thing is, all of my acne was on my chest and back. At the time, I felt like the different, damaged and the dirty inner belief that I perpetually had in myself, was finally revealing its ugly identity to me.

No longer were my thoughts just kept inside of me, now, they were outside of me, too. God, it made me so unhappy. I began having to think about what I would wear. I had to think about undressing in front of anyone. Every single day, I would wish away the spots that plagued my body.

But wishes don't come true.

So, I stopped wishing in the end.

I just got good at covering up. Got damn good at hiding my skin. My only saving grace was that my face was pretty clear most of the time. I'd get the occasional spot, but it was nothing like the acne that I painfully woke up to every single morning.

On account of my acne and my own hatred for who I was, I didn't have boyfriends. I had lots of male friends, maybe even a few dates here and there, but boyfriends were a real no-no.

I couldn't bear to look at or to be anywhere near my own spots—so why would a boy?

Instead, I focused on my pretending.

Pretending to have a clue about what I would do after my exams.

Pretending to be excited about leaving school.

Pretending to be a carefree teen.

Pretending....pretending....pretending!

Not even then, did I realise just how alike me and my mother actually were.